


Sassenach

by Noralesong



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Betrayal, Canonical Rape/Non-con, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Colonialism, Drama, Emotional, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Protagonist, Graphic Description, Historical, Love Triangles, Non-Consensual Touching, Original Character(s), POV Jamie, POV Original Female Character, Physical Abuse, Romance, Scotland, Sex, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 72,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27842059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noralesong/pseuds/Noralesong
Summary: Her best friend always believed that traveling through the stones was possible. Morgan discounted her until she followed her the eve that Gillian was destined to travel. Only, rather than finding her friend, she tumbled through the stones herself. - No Claire -
Relationships: Jamie Fraser/Original Character(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 51





	1. To the Naysayers

"We're going to free Scotland," Gillian asserted, for probably the umptenth time since Morgan had met her. Their friendship had spanned years now, since they had gone to university together and now that they were both living around Inverness, working. Only, Gillian had retained her obsession where Morgan had set her eyes to more important work. 

On the table in front of them were the maddened writings of Gillian, created over the years, and amassed in the most fanatic of manners. Pressing her fingers to her brow, Morgan tried to remain composed. The only reason she had called Gillian over was because her husband, Greg, hadn't seen her in weeks and was worried about her. 

"When?" Morgan entertained, aware that Gillian was prone to her tangents and it was best to keep her interested rather than spurning her immediately. To think that Gillian was years older than her and it was Morgan who acted more like an adult.

"Tomorrow night," Gillian informed her. "You'll come? I even prepared an extra dress and everything for you. I remember when we first talked about this four years ago. What were you, barely 15? Smart lass in a big school-"

"What about Greg? I know things have been tough between you, but you don't think that he'll miss you?" Morgan objected, eliciting a frown from her fair friend. 

"Greg doesn't matter. This is more than the both of us. This is a bet to save all of Scotland," Gillian insisted, her light eyes boring into Morgan's icy blue. "You're not coming, are you?"

"I'm going to finish out my fellowship," Morgan told her evenly. 

Gillian snorted indignantly. "Do you really think that they'll respect you? Not only have you had trouble because of how young you are, being a woman did you little good either. They won't care that you've done your part in studying. Come somewhere that your knowledge will actually matter."

Morgan had never believed in what Gillian did. Her own mind was routed in logic and without the paganistic fantasies that one could travel through the stones as Gillian had hypothesized. Still, not wanting to unravel the world that her friend had built, Morgan had entertained Gillian because it had impassioned her. She had even gone as far as joining the Society of the White Rose because of Gillian. Even if the woman seemed a bit mad, Gillian was the first friend she'd made and kept since moving to Inverness. 

Women were still trying to carve their way in the world and few had respected her prowess. Morgan was the youngest woman to attend the local university and many saw her as an upstart, especially since she pursued a scientific field. Making friends with Gillian had done little to abate these ideas. Even if Morgan was a skeptic, she typically put on a brave face for her old friend. At least, until this moment.

"Gill it's not going to work," she insisted finally, smoothing her fingers over the papers, sighing. 

"Again with your doubt," Gillian rolled her eyes. "Humor me here, if it doesn't work, it doesn't work. But at least come to Craigh na Dun to laugh in my face."

"Gill it isn't about proving you wrong," Morgan sighed. 

"Hasn't it always been?" she snapped. "You like to do that don't you? Do you get satisfaction from always being right?"

"Gill, please just listen to me-"

"No," she began scooping up her work, piling it untidily, shoving it into a leather satchel. "I should have known that you'd just want to deter me after all of my years working on this," she grumbled beneath her breath. Pages crinkled and crumpled as she put the years' work away and threw a glare in her direction. "I brought your dress if you reconsider."

Left by the front door was a cloth bag with neatly folded clothes that Gillian had spent a good amount of time attempting to make as accurate as possible. In turn, Morgan had assisted her in keeping to historical accuracy, taking some time away from the importance of her medical studies to get into the history herself. Gillian's obsession had wedged between her and her husband and Morgan now worried that it was going to separate them for good.

"Gillian, I'm here as your friend. You know that," Morgan entreated as she followed the blonde to the door.

"If you were my friend, you'd come with me and use that knowledge in your head to help fix everything." The door slammed shut behind her and Morgan collapsed into a seat at her kitchen table. Placing her face in her hands, she leaned against the table trying to think hard about what she could do to remedy this. Gillian was persistent and stubborn, if she had set her mind to this, then there would be no changing it. Morgan had only hoped to keep her from breaking her own heart when none of this worked.

_Hell, maybe I'll check on her tomorrow night. Not to laugh in her face, but to help her come to terms with the failure,_ Morgan considered before returning to the front door, picking up the bag that had been left behind by Gillian. Another knock drew her attention. Maybe Gillian had reconsidered?

Opening the door, she sagged in slight disappointment that it wasn't her blonde friend. "Well, dinnae look so disappointed," Will complained loudly as she let him in. "What was Gillian doing here?"

"I was trying to convince her not to attempt her pagan ritual at Craigh na Dun," Morgan elaborated, waving her hand in a whimsical fashion.

"Oh, that load of piss again. Dear God, I dinnae ken why you entertain that woman. She's made it pretty clear she only was your friend because of your intelligence," Will asserted, brushing his fingers around her waist in an attempt to pull her into an embrace. Only, Morgan pulled away, her expression thick with guilt.

"She's still my friend. You know it wasn't easy when I got here," Morgan frowned, brushing some of her long brown hair behind an ear. "I specifically recall that you didn't make it easy for me."

"You were just a wee lass and I a stupid boy. The years have changed much between us," Will pointed out. 

"I think you're a stupid boy still," Morgan hissed. 

"Oh, why? Because I think Edgars is raving mad?"

"No, because you've come to bother me after getting caught with Jean again. Will, I told you that we'd be over if you were caught with the whore again! And then to have to hear the news from Gillian-"

"Gillian told you? How can you be certain she didn't lie to turn you against me?" Will pointed out, taking a step toward her.

"Because as much as Gillian can be a pain, she's never once lied to me," Morgan retorted thinly.

"Then you're the only one in Inverness that Gillian hasn't lied to."

"You're not disputing me aside from attacking Gillian's character. Were you with Jean again?"

Will threw up his hands in exasperation. "Only because you've had your head in your fellowship. I thought maybe if I gave Jean a bit of attention that you'd come around, but it's obvious you get just as obsessive as Edgars when it comes to your work. You're already a doctor and I waited a few years for you to return from Edinburgh for you to get your medical degree!"

"Oh, so giving a little attention consists of snogging Jean in the pub? Gillian wasn't the only one who saw," Morgan reminded him, eliciting a deep frown from Will.

"Then I've nothing to say. I dinnae sleep with her."

Morgan pressed her hand to her brow, drawing in a deep breath to try and still her emotions. When she opened them again, Will was standing considerably closer to her, rising above her menacingly. He'd done this a few other times when she'd outed him for cheating on her, but she'd been stupid enough to forgive him and his puppy-dog eyes. 

"No, you didn't get _caught_ sleeping with her," Morgan said pointedly, throwing a glare up at him in defiance.

The slap that came jarred her, blue eyes stretching wide in shock as she reached up to touch where she had been hit. "Get down from your high horse. You're still a fucking English cunt, no matter how long you spend here. And remember, no one will believe a word you say because of your affiliation with Gillian," Will informed her, giving her just a mere second before he shoved her down on the floor.

Morgan fell her against her hips, her head smacking against the wood floors. Stars danced in her vision, blinking slowly to try and regain focus. The pounding in her ears was only accentuated by the sharp pain of a boot to her stomach. Even if she couldn't see what was going on, she could feel it. Her fingers reflexively went to shield her face, her body curling as she tried to deflect her torso from the worst of the blows. Why? Why was this happening?

It stopped, the blood rushing in her head as she opened her eyes, wondering if it was over. No one was around her.

Morgan pushed up weakly, turning her head to her apartment door which had been left open. Her ribs screamed in pain and when she touched her face, crimson clung to her fingers in a sticky coat. What was about a minute, felt like hours as she struggled to her feet, scrambling up against the table before she limped over to the front door and closed it. Her body sagged against the door and she locked it, smearing blood against the dark wood, before she slid to the floor.

Will was right. Morgan wasn't Scottish and even though she'd earned the affection of many Scots in Inverness, for each person she had earned the affection of, Will knew their husbands and sons. It helped little that his father was Dean of the university, which also had close ties to the hospital where she was working. 

Choking on a sob, Morgan dragged herself to the bathroom to try and assess the damage. Her brow and lip were bleeding, her jaw sore where she had been slapped. Already, her skin was bruising from the brunt of the damage. Muddy boots had destroyed the pink blouse she had been wearing. Her fingers scrabbled on the faucets, starting the bathtub. 

She slunk into the hot water, wishing more than anything that Gillian was there to talk to her. But just before Will's arrival, she had pushed her one true friend away. 

_He tried to turn me against her too,_ she thought, staring at the bruises on her arms and stomach. 

Morgan didn't want to leave Inverness, but after what happened that evening, perhaps finishing her fellowship and heading back south would be wiser. 

_Whatever that was tonight, I don't want it to happen again._

Eventually, she crawled into bed, worried that she might wake up and see Will again. She bunkered down, cocooning herself in her quilts, pouring a strong drink to help her sleep through the aches and pains. Morning did not rouse her, instead, when she woke again it seemed to be of a similar time from when she had fallen asleep. However, there were small differences, allowing for Morgan to realize that a day had passed.

Sitting on her front step was the paper, which was dated for a day later and a bundle of roses which had become a little wind whipped on the stoop. Retrieving both, Morgan opened the card with the flowers and frowned. 

_'To lovely Dr. Avalon. Please accept these as an apology for my atrocious behavior. - Will'_

She dumped them in the trash. Morgan had never cared much for flowers, especially roses. Her immediate thought was to hope that the roses were expensive. 

Trying to collect her frazzled head, she glanced back to the door to see if she had locked it, noticing the bag that Gillian had left her.

"Gillian..." she breathed, remembering that tonight would be the night that her friend attempted to go through the stones at Craigh na Dun. Even if her body hurt, even if she just wanted to sleep away another day, Morgan trotted over to the bag and pulled out the gown. 

This was all for Gillian. Maybe once she failed traveling through the stones, Morgan could hope to gain advice on what to do about Will. 

Once she had changed fully, Morgan locked up her apartment and got into her car. The town was sleepy, darkness having folded over it like a warm blanket. Only the few street posts in the main portion of town illuminated it at all, like keen will-o-wisps to keep those walking in the evening from straying from their path. However, this safety in the light vanished as Morgan departed from Inverness and began the drive on the inky country roads toward Craigh na Dun. 

Light attracted her attention, which was odd, nothing was out this far into the country. Eyes listing forward, she observed that the hilltop which had the stones stacked upon it had a leaping flame dancing against it. Morgan barely stopped her car in time, her heart in her throat, unable to remember what Gillian's writings had detailed about traveling through the stones. Throwing the car into park, the keys were left in the ignition, puttering out the moment she took her foot off the clutch. Another car was also parked nearby, it appeared to be Greg's.

She hiked her skirts up, sprinting up the damp, dewy grass before seeing the fire that consumed something at the bottom of a stone. 

"Gillian!" Morgan shouted, drawing in her cloak around her, eyes scanning the area.

With no choice but to see what was on fire, Morgan darted forward nervously. The flames wickered against a body, realization dawning on her as she stared open mouthed at the man she'd just spoken to yesterday morning; Greg.

The acrid stench of the burning body in combination with the smoke brought tears to Morgan's eyes. She swayed sideways, buzzing deafening her, shock? Ducking around the body she leaned up against one of the monolithic stones, trying to see where her friend had gotten off to. She knew Gillian had been obsessed with going back to save Scotland, but she had never thought that she would be so consumed by this that she'd kill her husband.

World spinning in front of her, Morgan tried to steady her vision by leaning off the stone. Instead, the flames and smoke blurred her eyes and she fell forward into the grass. Some of the smoke had remained in her lungs, causing her to sputter into the grass. 


	2. Lost in the Woods

The grass smelled fresh and devoid of the crisping fire which had fed on a corpse. Light filtered beneath her eyelids, though it couldn't have been more than a few moments from when she had fallen down from the stone. Logic dictated that she should have been just inches from the corpse and that if, somehow, she hadn't been burned that the charred remains would be right there.

However, as she set her jaw forward and glanced up, she found that the hill was uncharacteristically verdant and the sky was a clean blue devoid of clouds. This was a very rare and beautiful day in the highlands, where it rained most of the time. Drawing a deep breath in, Morgan pushed up and glanced around nervously, searching for a sign of what had happened or for Gillian.

Neither came.

_God, where am I?_ she wondered nervously, twisting a finger around a few of her mother's rings that adorned them. What if it had actually worked? What if Gillian's mad ideas of time travel were actually real? _No, no, don't go losing your head. You were delirious when you arrived at Craigh na Dun, imagined the fire, and just passed out. Maybe you've got a concussion,_ she reasoned, trying to bring back her mind to logic.

The car would be where she left it.

Morgan trotted down the hill, careful not to slip in the wet grass. However, within a few moments of approaching where the road should have been, her stomach churned disconcertingly. There was no wooden bumper to prevent visitors from driving too far up. Nor was there a road. Morgan had spent enough afternoons by Craigh na Dun to know exactly where everything was supposed to be. 

_Gillian is playing a joke on me. She must be upset that it didn't work and I've just gone around the wrong side of the hill,_ Morgan thought, nodding slightly at her hypothesis. So she rounded the hill, her heart thrumming in her chest like a strong bass, her feet quickening until she was running to see what laid on the other side; forest.

Morgan swayed, falling to her knees in front of the trees as she tried to reason her way out of this. Her body still ached from her injuries and she felt considerably weak, legs quaking from both fear and exhaustion. Immediately, she knew these were symptoms of dehydration and perhaps, maybe, she did have a concussion. Still, wallowing out by the remote hill would bode her little good. Maybe she could find help and discover what was truly going on.

Her uncertain and weak legs took her into the woods, trailing along a game path. Birds chirped and the sunlight filtered through the branches, boughs laden with leaves and the ungrowth verdant and springing up with ferns and small flowers. Everything smelled so clean and lovely, a refreshing morning in spite of the confusion Morgan was enduring. 

Eventually, she found a dirt road, glancing up and down it for a passerby. With a sigh, she began down the road, wondering if it would lead back down to Inverness or if she was heading in the completely wrong direction. 

A rock skittered on the road in front of her, causing her to stop and glance around. If she had to guess, it had been thrown deliberately, her head turning to gaze in the direction it had come from. Her head pounded and she closed her eyes, trying to steady herself as she grasped the stone in her hand. Did she see someone just on the other side of the road, down in the ferns?

"Miss, are you alright?" 

The voice was clearly English. Morgan opened her eyes, still clutching the rock, and glanced over her shoulder. Standing behind her was a soldier in a red coat, his hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. He was rather handsome, broad shouldered, and actually seemed concerned over her wellbeing.

"I'm... a bit lost," she said earnestly, trying to push off of her knee to stand up. Immediately, her vision swam again and she confirmed slowly that she must've had a concussion which had been aggravated when she drove up to Craigh na Dun. 

Morgan swayed and the soldier hurried forward, shoving aside his rifle to catch her before she fell. "You're hurt, miss," the soldier observed, noting her busted lip and bruised cheek. 

She resigned herself to nodding, her mind battling over what was going on. Unless there was some sort of reenactment going on, she was quite certain that she was _really_ in the past like Gillian had been hoping. Just the sheer idea made her shudder.

The soldier picked her up, calling back to other British soldiers to come back with him. Unable to really keep track of where they were going or what was going on, Morgan's head lolled, the only question coming to mind, "What's your name?"

"Cedric Walters, miss," he answered kindly. "What are you doing out here? It's dangerous due to the savage scots."

"I don't know..." she managed.

When she opened her eyes again, she was laying in a large tent on a bed. Her head turned to the side, wondering where Cedric had gone. The tent flap whipped sharply and a man with dark brown hair entered, a few years older than Cedric. 

"Ah, it seems you have awoken. What may I have the honor of calling you, my lady?" the new soldier inquired sternly.

"Morgan Avalon," she managed hoarsely, watching his countenance shift in mild amusement.

"An interesting name. After Arthurian legend?" he asked.

"Yes, my first name at least," Morgan admitted with a small smile.

"My name is Captain Jonathan Randall... I am aware you are a bit indisposed at the moment, but I have a few questions for you," the captain introduced, not unkindly.

She recognized that name. Gillian had mentioned it before, but her brain was too jumbled to recall the plethora of information that her friend had battered her with. 

"Very well," she nodded, wondering if her mind was in a good enough state to try and recite the lineage that Gillian had attempted to drill into her head. After all, if they did fall through time, they had to be prepared if they came across people questioning them. For Gillian, it was easier to come up with a lie because she was Scottish.

"What were you doing on that road? Were you ambushed?" Randall began, pulling up a chair to observe her expression.

"I can't really remember," Gillian had not trained her what to do in a situation like this. They were supposed to go further north together. "I recall waking up by a hill of stones and being like this. I made my way down into the forest and to the road."

"Hm..." he considered, unwilling to betray his train of thought as he glanced away for a moment. "What is a young English woman, such as yourself, doing this far north?"

This question she had an answer for. "I was traveling to see my cousin in Orkney. I have studied in healing arts and received a letter from her a month ago that she's due with a child. My plan was to take a ship from Inverness to help her, as she's rather frail and needs more assistance than just a midwife to see her through this pregnancy," she explained evenly. 

"I find it odd," Randall said delicately. "That we have been having issues with the Highlanders and on an afternoon which we had been ambushed by them, that our own assault was interrupted by a stumbling English woman."

Morgan's brows pulled together. "You're referring to me, then?"

"Save for your injuries, I'd suspect you of more. At least those are genuine. I made certain myself."

Heat touched her cheeks and as she glanced down toward the blanket, her fingers skimmed underneath, realizing she was only in her chemise now. Her dress was hanging on the back of a chair, her eyes turning back to Randall uncomfortably. She drew the blanket up, conscious he was eying her. 

"Bruised ribs, arms, fat lip, a bruised face and perhaps a concussion as well... Looks like you took quite a severe beating from someone," Randall admired, his voice impressed by the work that had been done on her. "A shame about the face. It's so lovely, you'd think whoever did this would have the sense to only maim where the injury wouldn't be visible." He reached forward and touched her face with a calloused hand, an unpleasant chill zipping down her spine.

Morgan froze, aware that she was weak from her injuries and indisposed at the moment. Her best bet was to not anger Captain Randall and decide what to do after he'd left. His thumb traced her warm skin, drawing over her mouth, burning a path against where her lip had been busted.

"Such full, kissable lips," Jack admired, pulling her bottom lip down. "A healer you said? You look more like your namesake, a witch perhaps, an enchantress-" he was disturbingly close at this point.

"Captain," a soldier called for him at the entrance.

Randall narrowed his eyes, but before heading to the front, he drew Morgan's frozen countenance toward her and pressed his mouth to hers. Morgan's cheeks pursed tightly as she resisted him, glad to have him turn away to approach the entrance where the soldier was waiting for him. Turning in the bed, she wiped her mouth, heart hammering loudly as she stared at the tent side, wondering what she could do to get out of there.

The captain left the tent to address business. Still lethargic, Morgan sat up, aware that his forced kiss wouldn't be the only thing stolen from her if she remained. Thus, she kicked the blanket off and stared haughtily at how little she was wearing. She had been stripped down to her chemise, her skin crawling as if there were a million bugs on it. In order to see her injuries, the chemise would have had to have been lifted.

Cheeks burning, Morgan snatched her dress and boots, putting the shoes on first in case Randall came back before she was fully dressed. Her stomach groaned in protest and she wondered how long it had been since she'd had a proper meal. 

The first sign that not all was right in the world was when a musket shot whizzed through her tent and just by her ear. Morgan's eyes widened, shouting ensuing immediately after, as she pressed herself low to the ground in fear that another stray shot may strike her. 

Metal sang out of scabbards and shouting occurred from both British and Scottish. Eventually, Morgan wormed her way out of the back of the tent, beneath the leather, and into the midst of fighting. Whatever was going on, she didn't want to become a part of it, holding her cloak tight around her, not having had the chance to put on her entire dress. Seeing her opportunity to flee, Morgan took it, head still pounding, and limbs still weak.

Even then, she was propelled forward by only adrenaline. She skirted away from the campsite and back down the road, toward the nearest copse of trees she intended to hide within. Her ears were ringing, stinging in pain from the loud musket shots. 

"Slipping out to join your allies?" The familiar voice of Jonathan Randall made Morgan run faster. She didn't glance back. Instead, she toppled into the forest, slipping on damp undergrowth, clumsily rolling down a hill. She managed to shield her head as she rolled down, collecting twigs and dirt, her cloak snagging and catching her on a tree. 

She stared face to face with not Jon Randall, but a new man. Morgan scuttled, trying to grab her cloak which was nearly choking her and trying to also pull down her skirt which had rode up on her way down the ravine.

"Stop, stop, lass, yer gaunnae hurt yerself," the man entreated, cradling one arm wearily. He reached forward and helped untangle her from a thicket of bramble. "Are ye alright?" he reached over to help her up, but Morgan slapped him away.

"Don't!" she snapped, whipping her head up to the forest above. "Captain... Captain Randall is following me."

The man's vivid eyes narrowed. "Get up. Unless ye'd like to stay here for him."

Morgan shook her head, following quickly after the strange that had helped dislodge her. They continued further into the forest, away from the din of battle, and away from Randall. She suspected that they lost him, the light of day beginning to flee the further they traveled. It gave her time to assess what was going on and to get over the fear she had felt being around the predatory Englishman.

In front of her was a tall, strapping man with broad shoulders. He was clearly Scottish by his accent and the tartan he wore, a mop of curly red hair stark against his mundanely colored attire. Her cheeks burned further at the memory of having been dumped unceremoniously in front of him with her skirt riding up. She drew her dirty cloak in closer, her boots soaked through, and her hair still filled with leaf litter and twigs.

They left the safety of the woods to approach a small cottage on the moor. It appeared to be ramshackle aside from the horses that were collected outside of it and a stack of smoke peeling from the chimney. The Scot in front of her opened the door, drawing the attention of the occupants, who reached for their weapons and leered at the newcomers.

"Jamie!" someone shouted indignantly. The putrid stink of men smacked her full in the face; sweat and dirt mixed with an unsavory musk.

"Who've ye got here?" another man asked, eying Morgan dubiously. He wasn't the only who invested their attention with her, in fact most of the men stared openly. Even with her russet cloak drawn in, her calves were revealed and her face haggard. 

"Dinnae," Jamie, her escort, admitted. "Says she was running from Black Jack Randall."

The name elicited a few eyebrow raises. 

"I saw her on the road earlier. Tried to get her attention," another man commented, this one with a large forehead and small stature. "Then she went and fainted in a Redcoat's arms."

"Who're ye?" this voice was more persistent, forceful, and intimidating than the others who were speculating. A man lumbered forward from the hearth, glaring in her direction, as she stood trembling with her cloak drawn close. He glared openly at her. He was tall, with deep set hazel eyes and thick eyebrows. His hair was brown and he had a full beard. The others collected around him, leading her to believe that he was their leader. Still, his voice was unbecoming of his large chest and height. It was mellow, despite the force he pressed behind it.

"M-Morgan Avalon," she stammered, frightened and cold.

"A Sassenach?" he spat, recognizing her English accent. "Ye dinnae quite have their look."

He referred to her dark hair, lashes, and warm complexion. "My mother is Spanish," she offered as explanation, thumbing the rings that belonged to her late mother thoughtfully. Her parents had met in Barcelona when her father was traveling, ensuing in a whirlwind romance that brought them together in marriage. The Castellos had not been too pleased, but upon getting to know her father, they reconsidered their doubt and accepted him into the family.

"What're doing loitering round these parts? Did the Redcoats give you those?" the man demanded, gesturing to her injuries.

Lying would have made them more willing to help her, but she decided that she was too frightened to lie at this point, the severity of her position making her head ache. "I-I-I was on my way to Orkney," she begun, her voice trailing off as her head pounded again.

A strong hand gripped her arm, causing her to wince from the bruises that still covered them. She gazed at the man they had called Jamie, who was still nursing his injured arm, which she could more easily discern appeared to be a dislocated shoulder. 

"The lass tumbled down an entire hill, head over heels. I dinnae think she is well," Jamie told his leader, helping keep her on her feet. 

"Ye dinnae look too well yerself," another man commented.

Morgan was led to sit down on a bench, where she was able to reach up and press her cool hands to her forehead. Rather than continuing to insist she spill her knowledge, the men collected around Jamie to inspect his injury. Black Jack Randall... Her eyes widened at the recognition, the passages that Gillian had read to her in disgust. He was the Captain of the Eight Dragoons and notorious in local history for the terrible acts he committed against prisoners, including women who were unfortunate enough to be alone with him. Just remember the history made her shiver, his hazel eyes bright in her memory. Even the thought of his rough fingers to her lips...

"I'll be fine. Why don't ye get the Sassenach some food and drink?" Jamie suggested, pushing away the fussing Scots, he glanced back over toward her in concern.

"We need to ride tonight and with an arm mangled like thon, yer nae gannae get too far," the leader had approached, putting his attention on Jamie. "We'll need to put it back in place."

A man approached Morgan with a hunk of bread and a sour smelling flask. It was better than nothing. Morgan accepted it gingerly and glanced back in the direction of the men that were considering how to set Jamie's shoulder. She didn't think it would be too much of a task until she realized that they were going to force it in wrong.

Leaping up, her head swimming as she did so, Morgan managed, "Don't!" she sucked in air, gripping the bench as she threatened to fall over. "You're going to break his arm-"

"And how do ye ken this?" the leader asked suspiciously.

"I'm a doctor," Morgan told them, before realizing how preposterous that sounded seeing that she was a woman. Having said this, she knew there would be explaining to do later, but having given the Hippocratic Oath, she couldn't stand by and watch as they mangled the arm of the man that had led her to safety.

All eyes were on her, questioning and confused. Their leader seemed most irritated with her, but paused in trying to set the man's arm.

Eventually, once her legs were not as shakey, she managed to go over to help them. Her fingers ran along the strong muscle of the man sitting in front of her, inspecting how the shoulder had been rotated out of its socket. Her gentle touch elicited a shiver from Jamie, which she noticed very little as she glanced back up at the haughty leader.

"It's going to hurt. Does someone have a belt he can bite on? Perhaps some whiskey to take the edge off of it?" she suggested, looking amongst the group.

"Angus, give me yer belt," the man demanded, looking toward the man who had claimed to have thrown the stone at her when she had been on the road earlier. 

"I dinnae want teeth marks in it!" the short man protested bitterly, but reconsidered after the leader gave one more venomous glare.

Jamie was given a flask, which he accepted greedily, before he placed the belt between his teeth. Gently, Morgan moved her fingers to grip where she needed, as she had done many times before. Working as an ICU doctor, she had come across many injuries, ranging from accidents while hiking or car accidents. "This portion will hurt, someone needs to press against his chest. I need to twist his arm back into position before I can set it," she glanced over at the nearest man, who appeared of a similar age as their leader. He sighed and nodded, coming over to restrain Jamie as Morgan began twisting his arm.

She had been trained to ignore the grunts of pain, the crying or sobbing that might happen when she was helping people. Often, they'd rue her during it all, but it was the result that they'd be thanking her for. Once Jamie's arm was back in place she glanced at the man who was helping her. "I'm going to set it now-" she warned them both, having used most of her energy to strain against Jamie who was naturally trying to resist her.

"One, two, three!" she shoved, an audible pop making the men around her flinch as Jamie moaned against the belt, scrunching his eyes shut. 

"I'm sorry," she told Jamie apologetically. "It's going to be raw for a few days too. You'll need to stretch and exercise it, in addition to not using it much."

Jamie removed the belt and flexed his fingers, the initial pain having fled. "Raw?" he repeated, amazed that he could move again. "I feel fine."

"Right now you do," Morgan pointed out. "It'll take but a few hours for you to feel the pain where your muscles were strained due to your shoulder being dislocated. Here, use your tartan to pin it," she suggested, reaching to grasp the plaid that was strewn over his shoulder. She worked without thinking, binding the arm to his chest and giving him a rather proud look, smug with her work.

"A doctor ye said?" the leader finally asked, scrutinizing her again.

"In all but name," Morgan corrected hastily. "I have spent years learning their craft, working beneath others, but as I'm a woman I can never officially claim that title."

He nodded slowly. "Ye ken yer trade," he agreed, glancing back at Jamie who was scowling at the predicament of his arm being bound. "I am Dougal MacKenzie," he finally introduced. "And yer a long way from home. If the Redcoat had ye, why'd ye run?"

Morgan sat back down, still not fully herself just yet. "After I passed out, I woke back up in a tent, undressed, with a man asking me questions. He suspected me of working with... I assume, your group, and was acting..." their eyes were on her and she felt her breath quicken at remembering how creepy the captain was. No doubt, many of the Scots in here would have preferred to see her undressed as well. "Unbecoming," she finally finished.

"He dinnae rape ye, did he?" Dougal pressed seriously.

"I do not think so, but I was also unconscious for a good while."

"Black Jack would have done it when she was awake," Jamie commented sourly. 

_They're keenly familiar with his reputation,_ she realized, clasping her hands together as Dougal turned away to address his men. At the moment, she wasn't the most worrying bit of business. Rather, it was getting away from the Redcoats and back to safety at this point. Dougal spoke in Gaelic to keep her out of the conversation. She was too tired to attempt to follow along.

During the period of discussion, Morgan took the time to pick the leaves and twigs out of her hair. 

"Let's go," Dougal announced, the fire being put out, and the party of Scotmen getting to their feet.

Morgan was ushered out with them, standing awkwardly as they saddled up in the rain. Night was full upon them, the dark curtain drawn over the sky, stars dotting the horizon save for those hidden behind the clouds that were sprinkling down on them. They were going to take her... right? Or was she to be left at this dilapidated cottage for the English to discover her? Maybe she could navigate back to Craigh na Dun, but she was uncertain if she could do that alone.

"Up ye go, lass," a man directed, offering her a boost up on the top of a russet mare. 

Doubts fleeing, she accepted the help onto the horse. She hadn't thought she would get a horse alone... Which she didn't. Jamie came out of the cottage last and mounted the horse behind her, pressing close to her back. Her chemise was riding up, revealing her smooth tan legs. She drew over her cloak, trying to obscure most of herself, but was still disconcerted by how ill prepared she had become. 

She'd never ridden a horse before. The bobbing of the saddle, especially when sharing it with someone quite large, was distinctly uncomfortable. Her inner legs chafed against the leather, bare and without the protection of trousers or a longer gown. Having helped set Jamie's shoulder had also worn her energy even thinner. At first, she had tried to remain sitting up on her own, aware that she was closely pressed to the Scot behind her. But exhaustion sank into her bones, leeching away what she had left. Her frame sagged against the man behind her, back against a broad chest. 

She dozed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. Thank you for reading! I just wanted to say that I'm not a fan of Claire, as I find how rash she seems to be rather detrimental to a lot of the storyline. I understand that she's from the future and women are treated differently, but when you're trying to survive in a time where the law isn't on your side, you'd think she'd bite down her pride to not risk every one else's lives.
> 
> While I have inserted my own OC, Morgan, who has a similar background to Claire, I want to make the point that Morgan is much different than Claire. Being in the 1960s, she was allowed to study to become a doctor and has been one for a few years (thus why she's furthering her abilities by accepting a fellowship). She still faced a lot of backlash for it, however another point to make is her age. Morgan is twenty-four, which is very young for a doctor. It's mentioned that she began her college at 15, where she then met Gillian. A lot of hardships Morgan has faced is also due to her ability as a 'young genius' and as you might have guessed, Morgan has issues relating to people and expressing herself, as most of her life has revolved around her education rather than friendships since she's always outpaced those her own age and unintentionally belittled peers who are more than a handful of years older than her.
> 
> With a kind heart, she is often taken advantage of, as proven by her relationship with Will and that with Gillian (although she's still rather taken with Gillian). She might be smart, but she's not very people smart.
> 
> Her appearance is inspired by Yael Shelbia; dark hair and bright eyes.
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!


	3. Prone to Fashing

Her dreams were filled with memories, tracing back to her youth as a single child. She'd always been fond of books, whether they be filled with information or stories. Father had realized this, putting most of the books in her path, as scientific books. Either way,  Morgan would read them, even if they weren't as fun to read as poems and epics. 

"You're a shining gemstone amongst a field of wheat. The wheat is plentiful and has purpose, but you're a gemstone. What use is a gemstone in a field?" he'd told her after a foul day in school. Morgan had always had difficulty in school. She'd been too brilliant to leave amongst children her own age and had been placed in the later half of secondary school barely on the cusp of pre-adolescence. 

Purpose had always driven her. It was a lonely existence, being able to understand material that students nearly a decade older than her fumbled with. Her intention had never been to make them seem stupid, but she was so young and the cool tone of her voice often was received as wry and tart. This tone of voice grew with her, though Morgan had become more cognisant of when she used it to speak with others. Just be nice. It'll make things easier.

It had made her more of a target.

Small and frail, Morgan had been taken advantage of until she went to university. Her 'friends' needed help with their homework, which typically meant that she'd fill out the answers for them. The reward was the smiles on their faces and the clap on her back. This was what friends did, right? She was making them happy. It didn't take the teachers too long to realize that Morgan's handwriting was on a good portion of the work handed in and she was reprimanded by the school for 'selling' homework. Morgan had never sold it, she'd done it purely out of compassion and for her friends that were struggling. Only, those same friends had told their parents that Morgan had been pawning off papers in her spare time.

University was another can of worms. 

Just a teenager, barely on the cusp of womanhood, Morgan had faced the daunting task of working on her pre-medical degree. While the first woman to become a doctor in Scotland was back in the 19th century, it was still a rare occupation that women pursued. Away from England, where she would have no doubt run into her old secondary school peers, she learned in Inverness with hopes of becoming a doctor and using her kindness to help heal others. At least there, the only advantage they could use her for was healing.

"See here? This is the Genius of Lancashire?" the young man waved her journal above her head, sneering at the notes she had scribbled on the sides. "Far over the misty mountains-" he snorted, reciting the poem from J.R.R. Tolkein's work that Morgan had gotten her mind all wrapped up around. After all, she loved the fiction given her own namesake was Morgan le Fay, the witch in Arthurian legend.

"Give it here!" a tall, willowy woman plucked the journal out of his hand, giving it a glance herself. A delightful smile spread across her face and dread filled Morgan, wondering if she was also about to be teased by her as well. "Seems we have someone who respects good literature. Shame, I cannae say the same of you. We all know your marks are atrocious. Do you get off teasing a girl who is tenfold your intelligence?"

She handed Morgan back her journal, which was hastily stuffed into her pack. "Thanks..." she gazed gingerly at the woman's shoes.

"If they give ya any trouble, give me a holler," the woman said. "My name is Gillian. You're Morgan Avalon, right?"

The beginning of their friendship had mostly been in interest of clinging to the first kind person she'd crossed yet. Before Gillian had married and while she was finishing up her time in school. Even if others doubted Gillian, she was the first friend that Morgan had in Inverness and she hadn't minded the ravings she would go on. After all, it was fun to learn and the local history of the highlands had intrigued Morgan.

Where was she now? She had also tumbled through the stones, but Morgan had not seen her when she arrived. Up upon the hill, she had been alone in the verdant grass.

"Sassenach!" a voice hissed in her ear.

Morgan stirred, shaken from her memories, the bleak light of day covered by a thicket of clouds. Her head still ailed her and would until she could get proper rest. Immediately, she pursed her lips, her inner thighs had been rubbed absolutely raw and in her slumber, her cloak had fallen down. Jamie had been kind enough to cover her with his plaid, but that warmth had fled with the urgency in his voice.

"An ambush," he told her sternly. "Get down and hide."

Morgan tried to slither out of the saddle, but was given a bit of a shove. She fell onto the peaty earth, hands crying in pain as she quivered there. The Scot kicked off his horse and plunged toward the others, cries of 'Tulach Ard' echoing between the trees. Musket fire rang out, the dull reminder of how close she had been to being hit yesterday making her crawl off the road and into the forest like a cockroach. 

Morgan found a spot to hide amongst the heather, pressing her body to the cool earth as she tried to block out the sound of fighting. Guttural screams, the sound of metal on metal, gasps and gurgling as the last moments of life were sucked out of the victims from either a grievous gunshot or the finishing blow of a sabre. She could escape right now and make a run for Craigh na Dun. The thought passed her mind, but between quaking like a leaf in a windstorm and her raw thighs, she feared running into Captain Randall more than being amongst the Scots. Even if they were smelly, gruff, and dirty, they had been very kind to her.

The din of fighting quieted down, but Morgan remained where she was in the heather. Who had won? An answer came when the russet hooves of a familiar horse clopped above her. 

"Lassie?" Jamie's familiar voice penetrated the heather.

Morgan pushed herself up, filthier than when she had first hidden, which was quite an accomplishment. Her eyes trailed to his unslung arm and then up to his clear eyes, which reminded her of the sky yesterday. "You didn't listen," she sighed, her eyes observing the blood smattered across his tartan. "Is that-"

"Not mine... well, most of it anyway," he assured her, wiping off his sabre which crimson also clung to. 

Morgan wasn't afraid of blood, or else she wouldn't have made a very good ICU doctor. Yet, the blood she dealt with wasn't from a sword battle. "Your arm is going to be worse off," she informed him, making her way out of the heather to join him on the side of the road. 

"I'd rather have a sore arm then one good and be dead. If I didnae move me shoulder, I'd na be moving again," he offered her a hand up onto the horse, which was still difficult for her. She planted in the stirrup and flounder gracelessly until Jamie grabbed her by the waist and dragged her up the rest of the way. "Like a little bird, ye are."

She flinched sitting on the saddle, drawing her cloak back around her. "Even though I'm glad you're not dead, your arm is going to hurt quite badly," Morgan chastised, adopting the most motherly tone she could muster. Every hoof forward made her lips pinch with pain. 

"I can handle a single Redcoat with just a hand, mayhap even two, but nae three," Jamie assured her, adjusting how she sat in the saddle to try and make her more comfortable. He tossed some of his tartan back over her, obscuring her front to provide a bit more modesty. "Besides, cannae just fix me right up again when we get where we're goin?" he asked her, his breath hot in her ear.

Morgan waved him back as if he were a pesky gnat buzzing around her ear. "I can heal within reason. Only time can heal some wounds and you've aggravated this one even more."

Jamie brought them round to rejoin the other men that also seemed relatively unscathed. Why she was so glad of this, she didn't know why, but she supposed again it was due to the fact that they had protected her. They were drinking to their victory, passing around flasks with strong liquor in it. 

Jamie caught the passed flask and downed a gulp before passing it to her. "Take a sip, it willnae fill your belly, but it might ease those injuries ye have," he insisted.

The acrid stench of high potency alcohol burnt the inside of her nostril as she took a whiff. However, keen to forget about the pain between her legs, Morgan took two greedy sips, much to the amazement of the men around her.

"Ay, the Sassenach has some hair on her chest! Save some for the rest of us," Angus chortled, taking the flask from her.

Morgan wiped her mouth, her throat still burning, the heat passing downward and into her belly. For a moment, she did forget her hunger, but her head swam, a dull reminder that she shouldn't have drank so much while having a concussion. The group continued, pressing past the interesting rock formation above them and deeper into the woods. There was no use in dallying, as Captain Randall would pursue them. She wondered how they were going to end up evading him.

The ride continued to be miserable, her head falling a few times as her body tried to overtake her with sleep once again. It very nearly had a few times until she felt a strange sensation behind her. Jamie's grip on the saddle just behind her was slackening and she realized, rather abruptly, that he was going to slide off the horse.

"Help! I think-" but she barely finished as she was pulled off the saddle with him, his arm having been tucked around her stomach. The second fall of the day jarred her, head spinning as she glanced toward her charge, startled that he hadn't moved when he fell. The mare wickered and the others turned around to see what was going on.

A few of the highlanders rushed over, Dougal remaining mounted as I scrambled to see why Jamie hadn't risen. The ground was muddy and inspecting for wounds at this point would cause more harm than good.

Morgan stood up, tangling her fingers in Jamie's tartan as she tried to drag him off the road. Another set of hands helped her move the giant man, leaning him against a nearby tree so that she could see what had rendered him unconscious. The blood that he had claimed was not his own was fresh. 

Morgan's fingers were slick with liquid rubies upon removing her hand from the back of his shoulder. "Ye ken what happened?" a man beside her asked, his voice tinging with a slight bit of anxiety.

Leaning him away from the tree she saw the exit wound, having been obscured by the dark plaid of his tartan. "Bullet wound," she deduced gravely. "Had he said something, I might have been able to patch him up before he dragged us off the horse."

"Is he gaunnae die?"

"No, but he's lost some blood," she poked through the wound, having peeled back the fabric covering it. Jamie winced, but didn't wake. "I can try and put humpty dumpty back together again for now, but I'll need some alcohol. Wouldn't want him to get..." she sought for the right word given the time. Speaking science would only confuse them. "Infected."

"Infected?" the man grumbled.

"Feverish, red and swallow... which will happen if you don't clean a wound properly," she explained.

"What's goin' on over here? We need tae keep moving. How long's it gaunnae take to fix him?" Dougal had circled around, scowling at Jamie's form.

"A few minutes," Morgan scowled.

"Aye, use this," the man beside her passed a flask, reeking of alcohol like the one she had sampled earlier. 

"Right," she chirped nervously before uncorking it. She doused Jamie's wound with it, immediately waking him, which dissolved into cursing. "Buenos dias, la monada. Did you like your dirt nap?"

"More like mud," the man beside her said smugly, almost smiling beneath his beard.

"Ooh, that was right cruel of ye. I'm just a wee dizzy now," Jamie complained. 

"Just dizzy?" she snorted. "Try exhausted from blood loss. Why didn't you say something sooner, you dolt? We could have avoided this entire crisis hours ago."

"Lass is right, yer a right idiot."

"We needed tae keep goin'. No use in slowin down for me," Jamie sighed, glowering slightly at the man beside her. "I'm gettin' nough of an earful from her, Murtagh. Not ye too."

"Now we're stopped, so you only delayed the inevitable," she said smartly. "Dougal is none too pleased, let's get you going. You're lucky you seem to be as strong as an ox or you might be dead from the blood loss." Her eyes scanned around, wondering if anyone had clean cloth, but realized from their stink that they'd all been out in the field for too long. Sighing, she ripped at the top of her chemise, aware that it was the cleanest part. Doing this did reveal the top of her breasts, which were held by her bra, but it was better to save someone's life than her modesty.

Jamie did seem to enjoy the view as she bound his shoulder, her sun kissed chest heaving beside him at eye level as she worked. "Och!"

"Stop fidgeting and I can finish sooner," she scowled, moving again to continue binding it. Realizing where his attention was transfixed, she rolled her eyes and adjusted slightly, giving him a slightly better view down her chemise, so that the distraction was enough to keep him from moving.

"Are those rosaries?" Jamie observed, having noticed the beaded necklace around her neck.

"I said my mother was Spanish, did I not?" she secured the binding, not at all pleased by how makeshift everything was, but knew it would suffice until they arrived at their destination. “ _ He gives power to the weak, and to those who have no might He increases strength…Those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint _ ," she quoted Isaiah 40:29,31. "It's prettier in Latin."

"Ye speak Latin?" 

"And Italian, French, and Spanish," she nodded. "I grew up going to Latin masses. My mother taught me Spanish alongside of English. French and Italian came during my studies, since they are quite similar to the prior. Though I must be honest, I hate speaking French."

"We've another 15 miles to go, so if ye've finished dressin' his wound, ye can get tae ken each other on the road,” Dougal snapped, having noticed that Morgan had finished. "Not unless ye are keen to be reacquainted with Captain Randall."

Morgan shuddered at the thought, releasing her grip from Jamie's shoulder, who observed the skeeved expression on her face. "You need to rest, riding may undo what good I've done."

"Ye encountered him. Ye were runnin when I found ye, so afraid you fell down the hill and scrambled like a rabbit caught in a trap," Jamie said quietly between the two of them. "He willnae give up so easily. We cannae stay here."

"You all seem to know him."

"Aye and I ken well enough that he's like a rabid dog when he's caught scent of his prey. If I'm tae be too much of a liability, leave me beneath this tree with a pistol, so I can determine me own fate."

Morgan shook her head. "Enough with self sacrificing banter.  _ My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. _ Get up and let us join them before both of us are abandoned."

"A Godly wummin," Jamie commented wryly as he was helped to his feet by her and Murtagh.

"Helps to pray to him often, as my own hands can't do  _ all  _ the healing," Morgan admitted, thumbing her rosary. She'd forgotten about it, having always just worn it on her. Wearing it around one's neck wasn't very approved of either, but it kept Morgan from misplacing it. Typically, it was beneath her shirt, up against her bare flesh, a piece of her that she'd remove when she went to church or prayed at night. It also helped remind her that while wearing the rosary, she needed to act only on positive behavior.

Murtagh gave her a hand up onto the horse, her head constantly turning up to make certain that Jamie wasn't going to unseat them again. She would have preferred letting him rest for a few hours, but her comment about him being as strong as an ox seemed to hold true. It was move or be killed. This world was crueller than she had originally anticipated and she did not have Gillian to guide her through it.

"Thank ye, Sassenach," Jamie said as they caught up with the others. 

"It's my job. I cannot turn away someone who is injured that I can help. I knew my burden when I took it," Morgan admitted, though the graciousness was rewarding.

"Quite a charge," Jamie admitted. 

"My name is Morgan," she reminded him. "Would you prefer it if I just called you, Scot?"

"I think no," he chuckled. "Morgan... An interesting name."

"My father named me after Morgan le Fay."

"Le Fay... The Fairy?"

"Yes, she was a shapeshifter, though most tales paint her in a rather terrible and macabre manner," Morgan muttered, realizing that such a name might not suit her well in a world that still believed in witches. 

"So which are ye, fay, witch, or sorceress?"

"None!" Morgan frowned, hoping to chase away the idea that she might have some magical abilities. She'd have to be careful not to appear otherworldly until she found a way back to Craigh na Dun. 

"I'm only teasin'," he said to her chagrin.

"Jests like that can get me killed," she scowled, hoping he understood the severity of the joke.

"Only if it's true," Jamie continued doggedly.

Rolling her eyes, she tried not to dwell on the connotations of her name. Her back pressed back against Jamie's chest, the reassuring rise and fall of his steady breathing lulling her away from reality. She stirred herself, trying to keep herself from sleeping so that she could monitor her patient.

"Go ahead and rest yer eyes," Jamie urged her, a hand resting comfortably around her, chasing away the bite of the cold with his natural warmth. 

"Lest you fall off the horse again and drag me with you," Morgan grumbled, still bruised and battered.

"I promise ye I willnae."

Morgan closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. 

* * *

Castle Leoch crested in the distance, bordered by a beautiful loch obscured by a thicket of brush and trees. It wasn't the most impressive castle, having lost some of the upper parts of the main tower to age and disrepair. However, there was a grey charm about it in the dusky daylight and as people milled about it. Despite the haziness, the sun glinted through, peeking at them like a child hiding behind their fingers. They entered a courtyard, where women acknowledged the return of the men, smiling and greeting most of them with open arms.

"Is this the castle of the MacKenzie Clan?" Morgan asked inquisitively as they brought their horse round to the courtyard, taking notice of a few young women who eyed Jamie luridly. Why not? He was the most strapping amongst the ragtag bunch she had traveled with and she didn't doubt that this was a trend amongst Castle Leoch. 

"Aye," Jamie nodded as a stableman acknowledged that they had arrived earlier than expected.

"Aye, we've had some luck, a lil good, and lil bad," Dougal remarked as he handed the reins off to the other man.

Morgan slid down from the mount, her legs in an absolutely abysmal state. She winced from the shock of hitting the ground, nervously fidgeting with her rings again, one of which seemed to have misplaced a ruby while she had been mucking it around in the highlands. 

A woman approached as the men began retrieving their items from their horses. She was stout, a bit pudgy, but had a jovial and inviting expression that made Morgan think she was amongst the kinder in the castle. The men paid her heed as she clucked over like a mother hen, kissing some of the men on the cheek and welcoming them with hugs and smiles.

She was berating Murtagh for being filthy when she observed Morgan looking on curiously. "And what dae we have here?" she asked, gesturing to Morgan, who was probably a rather pitiful sight. 

Her hair was matted in several places, her cheek still dark with a bruise, lip healing despite being busted, and her attire was in foul condition. 

"This is Miss Morgan Avalon," Jamie introduced her, taking his attention away from his horse to tell the woman. "I found her runnin' from Black Jack Randall. She had no other place to go, so we took her along with us... This is Mrs. FitzGibbons."

"Morgan..." Mrs. FitzGibbons repeated uncertainly. "Yer a right mess. Come along now, ye be needing a bath just as sorely as the rest of the lot."

Morgan might have gone, thankful to be clean, but recalled Jamie's injury. "I'm sorry, but Jamie is injured. I only managed a makeshift bandage that will require changing," she objected.

"That bandage seems tae be workin' fine. I dinnae need help. Go ahead and join Mrs. Fitz," Jamie said, brushing aside the gesture.

"It needs to be changed everyday at least once," Morgan protested, glancing desperately back toward Mrs. FitzGibbons. She seemed to care about all of the men, so why not him too? "He was shot yesterday."

Mrs. FitzGibbons scowled at Jamie, much to her relief. "Ye hear the lass? Ye need a proper looking after and the lass has offered. Ye need tending. Go on then, I'll see to ye in a moment," she chastised, wagging a finger at Jamie before motioning for Morgan to follow her. 

Jamie made a face in Morgan's direction, as if blaming her for speaking up, but had she not it was possible that infection would settle in and make him late sooner rather than later. It was difficult to think that people didn't realize that living in dirty conditions made them sick. It wouldn't be for another hundred years that germs would be discovered.

Walking throughout the castle, Morgan grazed her fingers against the cold stone. People gazed at Mrs.FitzGibbons with bright familiarity, smiling in her direction. A few men scattered away from her like mice before a cat. Clearly, this was the woman of the house who took care of most business in getting Castle Leoch running. Escorted into a room with a fire already roasting, Morgan gave Mrs. FitzGibbons a set of supplies she would need. 

Amongst a plethora of herbs, Morgan wanted the strongest alcohol they had to clean out Jamie's wound again. He'd be none too pleased, but then again he'd gone and not said a peep when he had been shot. Just the thought of injuring a bullet wound made her flinch as she toasted her fingers in front of the flames, wishing to take off her boots and warm her wet socks.

Jamie sulked on a stool while they waited in silence, Mrs. FitzGibbons returning with a basin of water, the requested herbs, a flask of alcohol, clean linen, a mortar and pestle, thread, and a bone needle. 

Morgan poured the water into a pot that was toasting over the fire, tossing in chamomile, echinacea root, and garlic cloves. "Thank you, Mrs.FitzGibbons. I'll be certain to make sure Jamie is taken care of," she assured the matron who gave her a warm smile that brightened Morgan's heart.

"Everyone calls me Mrs. Fitz. You may also," she told Morgan, nodding toward Jamie, before stepping out to let Morgan work. 

"Off it goes then, you need a new shirt anyways," Morgan told him, nonplussed, as she had seen many people naked while mending them. Still, it didn't make it easier considering the fact that he was similar in age to her and handsome to boot. The doctor cleared her mind, or attempted to, as she saw corded muscle along his arms and his broad chest. She caught her breath at his gorgeousness, reminding herself not to be distracted as she glanced back at the pot that had begun to boil.

Eventually, she removed it, setting it on the table and tossing a few of the linen rags into it to soak in the water's healing properties. She separated the cooked herbs and garlic, placing them into the mortar which she could grind it into a pulp. A soft hum collected in the back of her throat, a distraction from her attraction to the Scot, to the lilt of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. 

"That's a pretty tune," Jamie commented as she worked, realizing her mistake afterward.

"It's Russian," she didn't lie, despite the fact that the ballet would not be invented for nearly two more centuries. 

"Are there words?"

"No, it's for a dance. I cannot reenact it," she said, thinking fondly of the ballet. Even if she had a decent voice, she did not have the grace to be a ballerina. 

"Dinnae let me interrupt ye," Jamie remarked, her cheeks glowing as she tried to pick back up where she had left off, but found herself oddly displaced. "Cannae sing now that I'm listening?"

"I'm not much of a singer, I was humming," she reminded him. 

"Humming is jus' singing with yer mouth closed. Ye hae a bonnie voice," Jamie informed her. "Ye sure yer no singer and this healer business is just a ruse?"

"No, I'm a healer first," Morgan insisted sternly, coming around Jamie to inspect his wound. "Oh!" she didn't mean to exclaim, but the lattice work on his back took her aback. Morgan had never encountered scars like this, but she had an idea what could have created them. Be it the doctor in her, but Morgan didn't really feel the boundaries that most people did. Touching a patient was just natural, even if it was the 18th century and being so liberal might be viewed as scandalous. Fingertips brushed the bumpy skin, wondering if he could even feel her touch.

"The Redcoats," Jamie informed her wryly. "Flogged me twice within a week. I expect they woulda done it twice in the same day if I wouldnae have died. There's no joy in floggin' a dead man."

Morgan was flabbergasted, trying to wrap the idea around her head that watching a man writhe in pain as you sliced up his back would be enjoyable. 

Jamie craned to look at her. "Oh, dinnae fash over me," he reached up and brushed the tears away on her face that she hadn't realized were coming. 

Morgan took a step back, wiping her own eyes and letting out a shaky breath. "I apologize, I've just never seen anything so deliberately cruel," she admitted, drawing a bit of a stare from him. 

"Ye were right sheltered then," Jamie said, cocking a smile at her. "I'm jus' glad that ye got away from Randall before he coulda done something similar to ye. Ye've a gentle heart, Miss. Avalon. Gentle hearts dinnae last too long out here."

Morgan set her focus to working on his wound, disturbed by his terrible scars. She took a hot linen cloth she had soaked, removed the original bandages, and started washing Jamie's skin, scrubbing the dirt away around it, and then gently dabbing his wound with a new wet cloth. "Captain Randall did this to you?" she asked finally, unable to bring a tune to her lips, still perturbed.

"The first time was for escaping Fort William and the second was theft. Or... at least that's what the charge sheet read," Jamie admitted.

"And there's such a severe beating for minor charges?" Morgan frowned.

"Nay, it's whatever they fancy on a given day," Jamie grimaced as she blotted his wound, reopening the crusted blood, causing new to run down. 

"Why were you trying to escape?... I mean, not that I blame you at this point," Morgan finished cleaning his injury and grabbed the needle and thread which she had been sterilizing in the alcohol. A few of the lacerations would heal better with sutures. "This will hurt a little, so keep talking, the distraction will be best for you."

"Ye sadistic wummin. I take back what I said aboot ye being gentle," Jamie cursed as she stuck the needle through the first time. He swayed, but forced himself to think back to the original question. "I left... I left because they were keeping me prisoner."

Morgan paused, giving him a sardonic look. "You must think yourself rather funny, don't you?"

"Only a bit- OCH!" he threw a glare at her. "The charge, if I ken, was obstruction."

"Still doesn't sound too serious," Morgan admitted thoughtfully.

"It was aboot four years ago now-" Jamie recounted, launching into the story of how he'd gotten captured, his original imprisonment, escape, recapture, and then flogging. "And then when I woke up, I was trussed up in a wagon with the chickens."

"Ah, trading the rats for chickens. At least the latter wasn't trying to eat you," Morgan said thoughtfully, wrapping up the last of the clean bindings around Jamie's wound. His story telling had distracted him enough that she could apply the poultice and bind him up in a professional manner. She admired her work.

"Nay, chickens are still very poor company," Jamie grinned, glancing back, taking notice that she had finished. 

"What about your family? Have you spoken with your sister?"

"Nay, it's better that I'm here not causing her trouble... I'm quite amazed by yer work, ack-" he had flexed his shoulder, the one that had been dislocated.

"I warned you that it would be sore later, especially if you used it, didn't I?" Morgan remarked smugly, crossing her arms.

"Aye, ye did," he grumbled.

"Tie it back up, lest you wish to be in pain for significantly longer," Morgan instructed, tutting about him as he replaced his shirt and tied his arm back in his tartan. 

"Yer very kind, ye know that?" Jamie told her. "Ye have a caring touch." He stared at her rather forlornly, causing an awkward silence between them, as he glanced down at hands, as if looking for something. "Ye speak like an educated wummin. Where did ye say ye were from?"

"I didn't," Morgan admitted, brushing back her hair. "Only that I was going to see my cousin in Orkney."

"Right," Jamie drawled, clearly not believing her.

Her cheeks flushed at his connotation. Where was she going to go? She'd left her aging father behind and she had hoped to begin making enough money to put him in a nice, seaside home back in Spain so he could live the rest of his life out. Never had she intended on falling back through time and getting lost there. This was Gillian's dream, not hers. 

"Ack, yer prone to fashing, aren't ye?" Jamie muttered, reaching forward to wipe away tears again. "Was it something I said?"

"No, I was just thinking of my father," Morgan sniffed, trying not to seem weak and childish in front of Jamie, but she couldn't help it. "I just realized I may not get back to him soon."

"Is he ill?" Jamie asked gently.

"In the head," she gave him a sad smile. "He loses his memory often. Sometimes he thinks I'm my mother, but she passed in an accident a decade ago." Alzheimer's probably didn't have a term here, not that she could remember, but others likely struggled with watching their family go senile, watching the person you once knew slip from between your fingers. He spoke often of the coast of Barcelona, the place where he had met her mother.

"I'm sorry, lass. It must be difficult. Do ye have any siblings who take care of him?"

"No, I'm the only child. He's in the care of professionals, but I still worry about him. He's out in the green country, but I hope to take him to Spain one day. He loves it there, which is why-" she trailed off, her heart not in the lie as much as it should have been.

"Why ye took work this far north," Jamie filled him.

"Yes," she said through clenched teeth. "I did not expect it to take such a foul turn. You hear things, but... experiencing them is another matter."

"Ye wear a bit of jewels and gold. Are ye of noble blood?... Ye dinnae have to tell me if ye dinnae wish to."

"No, just well off," she informed him. "I should... wash up. I'm still quite a mess."

"Aye, thank ye again, Miss. Avalon," Jamie gave her a doleful look, almost as if he wanted to say something, but was holding back. "Ye needn't worry aboot anyone in the castle. Yer a good wummin and they'll see that soon enough. Hopefully, we can see ye to yer cousin or father."

Morgan jerked her head in a slight nod as Jamie dismissed himself before she slid against the bed beside her. Fingers tightened around one of the posts, digging into the wood as she tried to come to terms with everything that had happened over the course of the few days. Her head seared in pain, a sharp reminder that she'd underwent all this trauma while injured.

She managed to her feet, the resolve fleeing from her hands which had once been steady. Setting the kettle over the fire, she began brewing a tea to try and ease her pain. While doing so, Mrs. Fitz opened the door again, glancing around the corner to see how Morgan was faring. 

"I'll draw ye up a bath, lassie. Ye be needin' it."


	4. The First Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. Thank you for reading this far! I've begun to diverge slightly from the beaten path that's in the story, as there are many differences between Claire and Morgan. Given their polar dispositions and Morgan's gentler demeanor, situations pan out differently.

The door was tossed open and Morgan glanced over to see who had entered without knocking. Sunlight already filtered into the room, the first tendrils of dawn basking her and the book she had found by the bedside. Mrs. Fitz stood in the doorway, looking as if she were going to duck back out, but realized that Morgan was awake and wrapped in a blanket.

"Oh... I thought ye'd be asleep," Mrs. Fitz admitted. 

"I'm afraid not," Morgan smiled gently. Even with her head injury, she had found it difficult to sleep past sunrise. Ever an early riser, Morgan had taken to a book of poems rather than turning back into sleep. The worst of her aches was between her legs, the skin rubbed raw where she'd been in the saddle. Her lady parts hurt a bit too, but that was minor in comparison to the rashes.

"Well, I've a lot to do today, I was gaunnae let ye sleep in-" Mrs. Fitz drawled uncertainly.

"Do you need a hand? I did not wish to leave my room earlier, the castle is like a labyrinth," Morgan said, setting the book down and giving the woman her full attention.

"An extra set of hands would be appreciated," Mrs. Fitz admitted, but then gave her a long look. "How do ye legs fair?" She had been there the night prior when Morgan had winced through the bathing affair. 

"Still ailing me," Morgan admitted through pursed lips.

"I expect it will for the better part of a week," Mrs. Fitz sighed. "Come along, let's get ye dressed."

Folding the blanket, she left it tidy on the sitting chair before being assisted by Mrs. Fitz. She was stripped down to her fresh chemise and then trussed up in a corset and a gown. Wincing a bit from how tightly Mrs. Fitz laced it, she tried not to grimace as Mrs. Fitz told her this was the tightest she'd laced it on a woman, comparing Morgan's waist to that of a young girl.

"Yer not married, are ye?" Mrs. Fitz quizzed her as they headed through the grey halls.

"No, I am not," Morgan admitted.

"Ye must be raving mad then, traveling the countryside on yer own. An unmarried wummin with that much jewelry on her," Mrs. Fitz exclaimed, giving her a chastising look. 

"I didn't think getting to Inverness would incur such an issue," Morgan told her modestly.

"Ye ken that now," Mrs. Fitz told her stoutly.

"Yes," Morgan chuckled at her. "I do now."

"Young Jamie mentioned that ye were a gentle lady. A bit too gentle for these parts," Mrs. Fitz said down her nose. "I'll take ye beneath me wing, make certain ye know what to look out for... I hear yer a Godly lady."

"Yes, born and raised Catholic," Morgan confirmed, drawing her rosary beads from out of her pocket. She had removed it the evening before, after Mrs. Fitz had been eying it dubiously at her throat. She turned the gold chain over, which had garnet beads, and painted gold baubles. It belonged to her grandmother, having been passed down on the maternal side of her family.

"I can take ye to mass on Sunday if ye'd like," Mrs. Fitz invited, closing Morgan's hand over her rosary. "I would just keep these hidden. They're quite bonnie, but I can tell they're real. Someone might try pilfering them from ye, even those rings-" she gestured to the assortment of rings that she wore. "Which Saint is that?" she gestured to the dainty gold chain against Morgan's throat which had a coin with a saint inscribed on it.

"Saint Raphael, so that he may guide me in my healing," Morgan told her, turning over the coin fondly. She had received it upon her confirmation. "And I would like that. I am not fond of missing mass, be it here or back home."

Mrs. Fitz guided her to the kitchen, where several other women were working to make breakfast. Morgan was about to offer, but was ushered into a seat where she was given some hot breakfast to enjoy. Watching on interestedly, Morgan was amazed by the sheer amount of portions being made, duly reminded that she was cooking for the entire castle. 

A young blonde girl swayed in, a pretty thing about 16 years old, who eyed Morgan before turning to Mrs. Fitz. The matron sighed at her, before jerking a finger behind her. "Ye might introduce yerself first," Mrs. Fitz clucked.

The girl paused in front of Morgan as she finished up her morning tea. "Mornin', Laoghaire MacKenzie. Yer the guest here?"

"Yes," Morgan swallowed the tea and placed a kind smile on her face. "A pleasure to meet you. My name is Morgan Avalon."

"You've a bonnie accent," Laoghaire complimented sweetly, she leaned up against the counter that Morgan was eating on. "I hear ye encountered the dastardly Black Jack Randall," her blue eyes widened in keen interest, the reminder of the foul man making Morgan pale.

"Mind yer own, dinnae be bothering the lady over rumors," Mrs. Fitz batted her with a rag she had in her apron. 

Laoghaire didn't seem too displaced by the matron thwaking her gently. "I'll be seein' ye, Miss. Avalon," the girl chirped before prancing out of the kitchen.

"That girl is nothin' but trouble," Mrs. Fitz sighed, shaking her head. "She's me granddaughter. I've been trying to get her to work, but she runs off like a wild horse."

"She's just a girl," Morgan said fondly, thinking back to her own youth and how she had never gotten to enjoy it. At least there were some taking advantage of the graceful, free years that God had given them.

"A wummin in most standards," Mrs. Fitz pointed out.

"Still just a girl in the head, though."

"Aye, I agree tae that."

Mrs. Fitz found work worthy of the newcomer, setting Morgan to helping knead bread and eventually, mend some freshly washed clothes. Not being much of a tailor, her only experience in sewing was that of flesh. Still, she was told that as long as the wind couldn't pass through it, the job was sufficient. Merry to be at work, Morgan barely noticed the time pass by. Honestly, she just preferred to be distracted from the fact that she was amongst strangers and in a forlorn time. It was only for Gillian's training that she found herself not as worried as she should have been. 

"Ooh, yer a right mess now. Come, we've the need to clean ye up for Himself," Mrs. Fitz found her sitting in a chair, continuing to mend clothes, her skirt dusted with flour from kneading bread earlier in the day.

Whisked away from her little corner, which had been quiet and peaceful, Morgan began wondering who 'Himself' was. She needn't worry for long, abruptly putting the pieces together as Mrs. Fitz changed her dress and ushered her hurriedly amongst the halls. They passed a few familiar faces, which she made an attempt to greet, but Mrs. Fitz was single minded and drove them forward.

Morgan was dumped in an exquisite room, birds chirping gently in gilded gold cages. She was drawn to them naturally, her fingers grazing the bars, wondering if she saw herself in the pretty creatures. 

Behind her, the doors creaked open, and a new person approached her. Morgan turned, observing the man, who appeared to be mismatched from torso to legs. He was a rather handsome fellow, his jaw and face carefully hewn, his hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck in English fashion. His long, elegant torso was choked back by twisted and bowed legs, which Morgan observed with disturbing curiosity. Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome, a diagnosis that would not gain that name for more than a century. 

His legs must have pained him with each step, but the man did well to hide this. She was somewhat taken aback by his age, given that he was unlikely to have been given proper care or physical therapy.

"I see ye've met some of me friends," the man greeted, gesturing to his birds, before hobbling over behind a desk and taking a seat.

"Yes, they're quite beautiful," she admitted, drawing her hands away so that she could turn to fully address him, as was proper.

"I welcome ye, Miss. Avalon. I am Colum Ban Campbell MacKenzie, laird of this castle," he introduced, Morgan giving a resigned curtsy as the implication of his titles. "Please," he motioned to the chair just opposite of him.

Morgan gingerly accepted the squishy armchair, amazed by the amount of rich items in the room. 

"From what I've come to gather, me brother found ye in a rather distressing situation... Beaten from appearances-" he indicated the yellowing bruise on her face.

"Yes, I came in contact with Captain Jonathan Randall after fainting on the road," Morgan offered. "When I awoke, I found myself stripped in his tent and he questioned me, molesting me while I was weak and indisposed."

Colum nodded slowly, his pasty complexion difficult to read. Morgan had never been very good at reading people. "So ye were injured before the Redcoats found ye?"

"Yes, I cannot quite remember how to be frank. Only that I woke up in distress and the British soldiers came to my aid... at first anyways."

"Ye woke up in distress and yet ye speak to me with gems adorning yer fingers," Colum asserted. "Which means, ye were not attacked by highway men. They woulda stolen yer jewelry."

Morgan realized she had made a mistake, her cheeks flushing at the indication that she was lying. "Fine," she grumbled, quickly backpedaling for a solution. "I was due in Inverness to take a boat to Orkney to see my cousin. I did not travel alone. I traveled with my fiance, William. I believed he would see me safely through Scotland until I got to Inverness. We had a bit of a row, because I'd discovered him snogging a barmaid after I'd gone to sleep. He beat me and I ran."

Whether Colum believed her, she didn't know. "This William, was he English?"

"Yes, he's from Lancashire, as I am," Morgan nodded. 

"Beating a wummin for an accusation of cheating... Yer Catholic, no?"

"Yes," she drew her rosary beads and touched the necklace at her throat. "So I took his betrayal very hard. I may have been crueler than I should have been, but you can understand why I was so upset."

"I cannae imagine someone as slight and dainty as yerself, wrathful," Colum admitted, running his fingers along the garnet rosary beads. "But running into the woods was just as foolish. See where that got ye?"

Morgan drew the rosary back and nodded glumly. 

"Now, returning to the topic of Captain Randall," Colum drew, producing a shudder from her. "Forgive me if I'm a bit dubious, but why would the Captain assault an English lady? If yer from Lancashire, it would be his duty to see ye safe on yer journey."

"I cannot speak on the part of a devilish man other than he was displeased with my proximity to the MacKenzie men. From what I gather, I had stumbled upon them as they were trying to fight off your men," Morgan revealed.

"Ah, the wrong place at the wrong time," Colum frowned.

"I am grateful for the hospitality that I have been shown thus far, but would it be possible for passage back to Inverness? So I might take the boat to my cousin in Orkney?" Morgan had enough of the wild world of the past. She needed to get back to her reality to make certain her father was still being tended to appropriately. Even if there were few others that would care for her disappearance, Morgan knew that she had to leave the past before she drastically changed the future.

"There will be a tinker here on Saturday by the name of Sean Petrie. Typically, he travels to Inverness each week and there's room for another passenger on his cart. Ye can hitch a ride with him," Colum advised, her shoulders sagging in relief as he said this.

"Pardon me for asking, but when is Saturday? I'm a bit out of my own head since this journey turned south," Morgan said, pretending to be a bit embarrassed.

"Five days from now," Colum informed her. "Until then, I open my castle to ye as a guest of Clan MacKenzie. Tonight, please dine with me so that we may become more acquainted. I am interested how such a young wummin kens so much about healing... I hear ye have a lovely voice too."

Morgan's cheeks flushed at that comment, keenly aware that only Jamie had heard her humming while she had been cleaning his bandage. Coming to a clear understanding that the conversation was nearing an end, she bunched her fingers on the skirts of her gown and gave the laird a courteous smile. "I shall take my leave. Thank you again for your kindness," she said, bowing her head respectfully before leaving Colum in his office.

A small breath displaced itself from her when she closed the door behind her, uncertain if the conversation she'd just had was as transparent as it felt. Gillian had once told her that most nobles spoke on gilded tongues, often hiding their true intentions with good manners. Could the Scottish nobility be the same and Morgan didn't have the journey with the tinker to look forward to? There was no knowing, she had to just wait and see. 

Having spent most of the day cooped up, Morgan stepped outside on the nearby terrace that overlooked the courtyard. Below, children mucked about, playing in the yard. Her attention fell particularly on Dougal, who was sword fighting with a young, red-haired boy. She couldn't help but chuckle as the boy hit true with his wooden sword and Dougal empathically pretended to be speared on the end of it. 

While she might have been terrified for what the future could hold for her, at least the simple things in life were the same. 

Dinner came soon after she left the courtyard, the first official time that she would be standing in front of the bulk of the castle. Her nerves hadn't been fraying until she arrived, later than everyone else, who had already seated themselves at the long tables that lined the hall. Walking amongst the gauntlet of tables, Morgan kept her jaw set forward, anxious as the stares trailed after her. There were no smiles or kind looks. The courtesy extended by their laird had been left at his table toward the back of the hall.

Approaching his table, for she had little elsewhere to go, she curtsied delicately and reconsidered her idea to come for dinner. Beside Colum was his brother and a woman. She was pretty, amongst yet another red-head at the castle. Her position of luxury had afforded her food to grow plump, but even then, she was still quite beautiful and soft looking.

"Good evening, my laird," she greeted, eyes flicking up and down the table.

"Here, take me seat," Dougal stood up, pulling the chair back to offer it.

Morgan forced a smile, cheeks burning as the brother of the laird gave up his seat. However, she did not spurn him, accepting the position beside Colum who cheerfully began pouring her a fresh chalice of wine. "Rhenish," he explained, giving her a smile. "My favorite."

Morgan was at a bit of a loss for wine, not being much of a drinker herself, and didn't know where the wine came from. Given the pride that Colum introduced it with, she suspected that it was probably a great luxury, if not exotic, for Scotland. Much of what Morgan had observed so far displayed a rather well-off castle in the 18th century for the Scottish. Colum's exuberant displays of his wealth, including his gorgeous study and birds, made her curious if the rest of his land was living in poverty or comfortable with the amount of taxes being taken. 

"Miss. Avalon, this is my wife Letitia," Colum introduced her to the copper haired woman, who gave her a well tempered smile. 

"A pleasure," Morgan chirped before Colum took control of the conversation again.

"Has Mrs. FitzGibbons made certain that you are comfortable?" Colum inquired. "I hear that she put you to hard work today."

"Oh, she's absolutely wonderful. I volunteered to help, so please do not blame her. I don't like being bored, I'd rather keep my hands busy," Morgan admitted, hoping she hadn't gotten the sweet old lady in trouble.

"It's a wonder Mrs. FitzGibbons accomplishes all she does, especially making such lovely bannocks given the state of our ovens," Letitia remarked, tossing Morgan a biscuit, her eyes setting wryly on her husband as if the comment was meant to be a jab. All of these wonderful things to flaunt, but an oven was a markedly big item being overlooked.

Morgan had only taken a couple of sips of her wine before Colum was filling it to the brim again. She tried not to grimace at the amount, but forced a smile at him and took another swig. It was strong and Morgan was quite small, drinking too much, too fast might cause her to embarrass herself. Still, Colum was quite insistent on sharing his fine wine, which made her suspicious. Was he trying to get her drunk?

"From what I've heard from me brother, ye claimed to be a doctor," Colum pointed out, bringing up her early blunder.

"In all but name," Morgan said gently. "I've studied for years beneath various doctors, learning their practices. Only, being a woman I cannot take the title of doctor. I fancy myself one, I've put the time in, I would have earned the title if not for my gender."

"The lass does ken what she's doin'. I'll give her that much," Dougal agreed, not quite as unpleasant with a few drinks in him.

"Speaking of which, how is... uh, Mr. Jamie? I apologize, I never got his surname," Morgan asked, thinking back to the patient she hadn't gotten to check on. 

"Why?" Letitia's brow furrowed, as if the intrusion of Jamie was an unsavory one.

"Nothing, she's just worried over the lad's health. He incurred a scratch on the journey back to the castle," Colum brushed his wife's pestering away before turning his eyes to his brother. "Where is Jamie?"

"I sent him over ta Auld Alec in the stables, since it's not wise ta keep him in the castle, but if ye prefer..." Dougal stared openly at his brother for the correct command. 

"That'll do," Colum nodded, abruptly ending the topic about Jamie before calling for another bottle of Rhenish. "Come now, drink up Dr. Avalon, ye'll not find this wine in Orkney or back in Lacanshire... Where did ye say ye were from in Lacanshire?"

"I did not, my laird, but I am from Liverpool."

"Ye must've crossed many doctors in Liverpool. It's an up and coming city, is it not?"

"Yes, it is quite a large borough."

"When is the last time ye were in contact with yer cousin in Orkney? If she's nearing with bairn..."

"About a moon ago. She was not due for three, but who knows, the pregnancy had been hard on her," Morgan revealed, the wine making it slightly easier to lie than previously.

"Do ye have any bairns yerself?" Letitia asked.

"No, I put my personal life on hold while I studied. I had a talent for it, so I thought it was better to work with what the Lord had given me before pursuing my own happiness," this was not a lie, Morgan had set aside much of her childhood in the pursuit of becoming a doctor. Since she was aware that the majority of the Scottish were Catholic, her own denomination, she thought it best to use that to her advantage. It wasn't as if she were pretending to be religious... being religious was part of her being a doctor. In the most hopeless situations, she had put the lives of her patients in God's hands. She would do her work, but if they were destined to survive, it would be up to him.

"A selfless lass," Letitia smiled admirably. "But truly, yer not married? Ye seem a bit young, may I ask yer age?"

Morgan was slight and small, her luminous eyes framed by dark lashes gave her gaze a rather open and innocent appearance. "I'm twenty-five."

"Really? I wouldnae have placed ye much older than Mrs. Fitz's granddaughter. Truly?" Letitia gasped in astonishment.

"That's my curse," Morgan muttered.

"Curse? Ye've the look of a girl still, I wouldnae trade that for anything-" the boy from earlier ran up, sputtering to a halt before them. "Oh, Hamish," he mother chided, placing a hand on the small of the boy's back. "Say hello to Miss. Avalon, she is a guest of ours."

"Ello," the boy greeted, slightly shy as he gazed up into Morgan's eyes. 

"Hello," she smiled back, the kind motion catching Hamish, who ogled slightly at her. "You are the laird's son?" 

Hamish blinked and recovered. "Aye, I'm Hamish MacKenzie. If yer a guest of me father, yer a guest of mine."

"Oh, well I really appreciate that," Morgan assured him kindly. "I saw you swordfighting today. You did quite a good job."

Hamish's cheeks burned, though the boy tried to play it off. "I have to be strong, for if the Redcoats come-"

"We shall receive them accordingly," Colum asserted sternly, chasing away the child's fantasies of fighting off the British. 

Dinner continued well into the night, much later than Morgan would have preferred given how early she had risen. By the time she was sent back off to her own chambers, she was a bit unsteady on her own two feet. Even so, she still believed she had her wits about her, enough that she wouldn't have said anything necessarily alarming. 

When morning came, Morgan was confident enough to find her way down to the kitchen after she fussed with her corset, refusing to tie it as terribly tight as Mrs. Fitz had done yesterday. A bowl of porridge was set in front of her, which Morgan cut an apple over and watched as the woman worked with renewed vigor. Morgan hoped that she was as active as Mrs. Fitz when she was of a similar age. 

"Mrs. Fitz," she entreated, washing down the porridge with some barley water. "Where can I find Jamie? I don't quite know where the stables are."

"Why'd ye need to find Jamie?" Mrs. Fitz asked, slightly confused as she wrung her hands on her apron to clean them.

"His bandages should be changed. It's been more than a day," Morgan explained, earning a nod.

"The stables are at the top of the meadow just to the east of the castle. Why donnae bring him some food? I'll pack ye a basket and gather the supplies ye be needin'," Mrs. Fitz offered.

Morgan got to her feet, cleaning up her breakfast and helping Mrs. Fitz allocate the necessary items. Once the basket was laden with fresh bannocks, apples, and a little ham, Morgan began her way out of the castle and in the direction Mrs. Fitz had given her. The morning was fresh, a light mist clinging to the green grass, which dampened the hem of her dress as she walked across the field. Most of the castle had yet to stir, the embrace of dawn warming her from head to toe, the beauty of the sun peering over the horizon against the grey clouds stealing her breath away.

No cars, no machines, nothing unnatural. It was strange that she hadn't thought much of it before, lighting lamps and candles rather than flicking a switch. Of course, there was the dirt and grime that seemed to be a part of everyday life, but other than that, Morgan loved how peaceful it was. 

A figure in the corner of her eye made her crane her head a bit, taking notice of the podgy greasy man, with a thick black beard. If she recalled correctly, his name was Rupert, and he was rather close to Dougal. He swaggered along, glancing away as she pinned him with a stare, doing rather poorly to hide that he was following her. However, considering that there was nowhere to hide from her, it was plain that he was going toward the stables with her.

_ Obviously, they don't trust me. I can't just smile pretty and expect they'll think I'm here on my own accord, _ Morgan reminded herself thinly.

The stables were right where Mrs. Fitz had told her. Leading a lovely blonde horse in the paddock, Jamie worked with the mare. Just the sight of the horse reminded Morgan of her raw legs, which were considerably better, but still ached. Pausing to watch, she didn't wish to disturb his work, especially with such a majestic, if not dangerous creature. 

Leaning against the gate, her basket brushed a set of horseshoes that were hanging nearby, causing a loud clatter which startled the horse. She reared, causing Jamie to jump back hard into the fence, Morgan covering her mouth in horror from what she had just done. 

"I'm sorry! Are you alright?" Morgan asked quickly as the horse padded away.

Jamie cast a look over his shoulder, but seemed unbothered by the exchange. "She just has a bit o' spirit, that's a good thing... What're ye doin' here? Colum send ye to muck the stables?"

"I brought you breakfast and fresh bandages," Morgan lifted her basket. 

"Ye dinnae have to. Me shoulder is fine," Jamie informed her, but his eyes were bright.

Exiting the paddock, Jamie sat down for breakfast. While he ate, Morgan changed his bandage for him, glad to see that he had not been overusing his shoulder and that the wound was healing well. Considering that the linens could only be so sterile and she was relying on herbs instead of medicine, this was the best result that she could have hoped for. A soft hum echoed in the back of her throat as she worked, though Jamie made no mention of it, as if he were afraid to have her stop and become self conscious over it once again.

By the time she had finished, Jamie had scarfed down the food, dusting away crumbs from his chest.

"Did you have enough?" she teased, tying the bandage tight, before sitting across from him. There had been an abundance of food in the basket, but Jamie was a rather large man working hard. Still, she was amazed that he had managed to pack it all down. "You'd believe they were starving you here, forcing you to eat the same grass as the horses."

"It's nae too bad, but not very filling," Jamie confided much to her chagrin. He grinned at her expression. "Winter before last twas rather rough. I was livin' in the woods with a group o' lads who were raidin' cattle. Our luck had run afoul and we ran outta food one week, so we took to the grass to try and fill our bellies."

"Why were you raiding cattle?" she paused, considering, "Does this have something to do with the charges you were given?"

"Aye, I had a price of ten pounds sterling on me head, which is aboot what a farmer makes in a year. Ye can see why I couldnae go home."

"Ten pounds sterling for an escaped prisoner?" she gaped. 

"Well... an murder, but I swear ta ya that I dinnae do it. When my friends broke me outta of Fort William, right after me flogging, a guard was killed. I could barely sit a horse in that condition, let alone try ta kill a man. But they charged me with the murder, nonetheless."

"The more I talk to you, the more complicated your tale becomes," Morgan admitted. "Speaking of which, no one will tell me your name. Your full name. Is it because you're an outlaw?"

"Oh, I usually go by MacTavish, but... that's not me real name. It's just for when we're traveling, just to be safe, as there might be some who'll turn me into the Redcoats for the coin. I dinnae think anyone in the castle will do so, but it's just for safety."

"That means that Dougal and Colum must know," she deduced.

"Aye, they ken, they're me uncles on me mother's side."

"Ah... Then it's a secret. Why would you tell me, I'm English?"

Jamie smiled earnestly at her. "Ye asked, so I told ye."

"But I'm English," she insisted. "You might've just told me MacTavish and I wouldn't have known for the better."

"I dinnae think ye could hurt a fly, let alone turn me in," Jamie admitted to her embarrassment. "Yer too sweet."

"I can be stern when I need to," she sniffed, trying to sound indignant, but Jamie just laughed at her attempt.

"Perhaps when yer trying to help someone-"

"Ye just gaunnae let the mare run wild in the paddock?" an older man trotted up, scowling at the both of them, but particularly Jamie. 

"Aye, aye, I'll head back over there," Jamie pushed himself to his feet, offering Morgan a hand up. "Thank ye for the food... and the new bandage."

"You're my patient, I wouldn't have been certain you were doing well enough without seeing your shoulder with my own eyes," Morgan informed him, eyes bright as she collected the basket. "Just... try not to get into any more trouble. I'd prefer not to have to patch you up again soon."

"Then I wouldnae get to see ye," Jamie pouted. 

"I am staying in Castle Leoch for now, just some paces away," she reminded him smartly, leaving him to return to his work. "Oh, you never did tell me your name... Unless you really do wish to keep it a secret."

"Fraser. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser."

"Quite a mouthful," Morgan pointed out.

"Just Jamie'll do."

Morgan departed the stables, rolling her eyes as Rupert sauntered back into view. He had likely been loitering just outside while she had given Jamie breakfast. 

"Rupert," she entreated, pausing halfway through the meadow. The sun was up completely by now, lighting up the verdant grass brilliantly. "Did Laird MacKenzie ask you to follow me?"

Rupert glanced over at her, nonplussed, staring at his hand disinterestedly. "Nay."

"Dougal then," she deduced.

"I'm just his eyes, not the head, but those eyes won't look away until the head orders me to," Rupert retorted.

"That's fine," Morgan shrugged. If Dougal still found it difficult to trust her, she could not blame him for that. Having one of his men follow her was albeit annoying, but she would not spurn Rupert for doing as he was told. 

Rupert gave her a rather puzzled look, but spoke no further as he followed her back to Leoch.

The next few days leading up to her destined departure had moved along much the same. Morgan helped Mrs. Fitz with daily tasks, keeping herself busy, and boring her guards which swapped between Rupert and Angus. Their attention faltered slightly, but it wasn't as if Morgan truly had any sneaky business to get along with. Instead, she kept her head down and helped where she could. 

She was out in the gardens with Laoghaire on Friday, pulling carrots and onions from the cool, damp earth. The girl was none too pleased to be working, but kept giving Morgan long looks. Eventually, she spoke up.

"Miss. Avalon," she entreated, her pale eyes baking Morgan on the spot. "My nan tells me that ye've studied under doctors."

"Yes, I have," Morgan nodded slowly. "I've studied since I was 15 years old. The majority of my training was completed a couple of years ago, I have been practicing for 2 years now."

"Ye started studying when ye were just a lil younger than me?" Laoghaire sounded impressed by this, pulling up a rather small carrot. "Ye must be very smart."

Morgan chuckled, her cheeks burning. She wasn't quite certain how people viewed academic geniuses in this age. For men, savants were lauded, but for women... They might suspect witchcraft for those who were exceptionally talented in a field that wasn't viewed as feminine. "It has just taken a considerable amount of studying and determination."

"I would like to be able to help... but, ye say when ye were 15. That cannae been too long ago. So it only took ye a few years to learn?"

Morgan shook her head. "I'm a bit older than I appear. It's been 10 years."

Laoghaire eyed her dubiously. "Nay, there's no way."

"Yes," Morgan confirmed, bemused by the girl. "I'm twenty-five."

"And yer not married?" Laoghaire was shocked by this revelation.

"Perhaps one day, but I put my work before myself. My own happiness has always been second to my job," Morgan told her, feeling self conscious beneath the admiration the teenager was showing her. 

"Ye must have kind parents to let ye pursue academics instead of a husband," Laoghaire sighed wistfully.

"Yes, my parents were good people."

"Were?" Laoghaire observed sharply.

"My mother passed away when I was your age and my father is ill... He forgets often, mistakes me for my mother..."

"And ye left him?"

"He's in the care of people who know how to deal with his illness. It's difficult for me to see him that way," Morgan confided. "To see the man I grew up admiring, a shell of his former self, unable to take care of himself, unable to remember that I'm his daughter..." her voice had become strained just thinking about it, wondering if he even realized she was missing. "But..." she choked out. "There are moments of clarity. Sometimes he'll say my name, but I'm just happy when he recognizes me even if he calls me by my mother's name."

"That must be hard," Laoghaire admitted sympathetically. "I cannae imagine trying ta live that. Yer on Da not recognizing ye. Ye must miss him." 

"Even when I'm right beside him," Morgan sighed, tucking the carrots into the basket. "I think we've collected plenty enough for your grandmother to make a stew for tonight."

Laoghaire glanced down at her own, heavy basket. "Aye, if I stuff anymore in there, I dinnae think I canna carry it."

Both lugged their baskets up and started toward the castle.

"I dinnae ken how long yer stayin' here, but maybe ye could teach me some of your doctor healing," Laoghaire asked.

"I may be able to impart some wisdom before I leave," Morgan smiled as they passed by a woman. She dropped her basket, startled by who she saw, onions rolling away.

"Careful there, looks like ye'll be cookin' for an army," the woman bent down and helped Morgan collect the fallen root vegetables.

Blood pounded in Morgan's ears as she glanced up, gazing into the eyes of her best friend, Gillian. However, she was slightly different, if not a little older than when she had left her. The sharp look in Gillian's eyes told her not to say a peep about recognizing her. 

"Thank you, I must be a bit faint from being out in the sun all day," Morgan admitted awkwardly, accepting the basket from Gillian.

They parted ways, Morgan trying to contain her astonishment. Laoghaire was staring her down. "Ye alright, Sassenach?"

"I think I may need to rest a bit after this," she muttered.

"That's Geillis Duncan," Laoghaire informed her quietly, hiding her voice from Angus who was trailing them disinteresedly. "All the young wummin in the town go to her. She makes potions and draughts to keep ye from weanin' a babe ye dinnae mean ta have. People say she's a witch. Maybe that's why ye feel all bad. She coulda cast a spell on ye. Yer a Catholic and healer, maybe she ken and felt threatened."

_ Gillian you idiot, why would you go and make such a name for yourself?  _ she wondered silently. "Oh, I don't know about that. Do you really think that someone can make you ill by just a look?"

"If she's a witch, aye," Laoghaire nodded gravely.

"El ojo malvado, my mother would have said,” Morgan remarked, recalling the ‘Evil Eye’ which was prolific in a lot of romantic cultures. “I'll need to go and pray then. Fortunately, I always have my rosaries on me and Saint Raphael to watch over me," she gestured to her necklace and Laoghaire gave a stern, but approving nod. 

"That's like to why ye dinnae faint," Laoghaire assumed. "Give me yer basket, I'll take it back so ye can pray and lay down."

"Thank you, Laoghaire."

* * *

She turned in until the evening, trying to wrap her head around who she had just met. Gillian wasn't in the castle, she must have lived around town for Morgan not to have run into her at this point. Still, the fact that Gillian was here should have brightened her attitude... made her happier that she saw one familiar face amongst a crowd of strangers. Instead, Morgan felt sick at the thought, remembering that Gillian had murdered her husband before traveling through the stones. 

Her friend's passion for earning Scottish independence was admirable, but that admiration had been put out by the fact that Gillian was willing to do  _ anything  _ to achieve what she wanted. Did that mean that Gillian would be just as willing to sacrifice Morgan as well? She'd killed her husband, why not Morgan? And in addition to that, Gillian had done well to make herself known as a witch among town. Given that people already knew that Morgan was an upstanding Catholic woman, associating with Gillian - or Geillis - would be frowned upon and suspicious.

Mrs. Fitz stopped by to check on her, having heard from Laoghaire what had happened. The matron clucked about her like a mother hen, reminding her that it was best to get ready soon if she was feeling up to going to the hall, as tonight would be important. 

Why tonight was important did not quite hit her until she arrived, noticing that the hall was filled to the brim with considerably more people than the few nights prior. She spotted Geillis and steered clear, trying to uphold the idea that she wouldn't spend the time of day with a suspected witch. 

The only faces welcoming enough to stand beside were Jamie and Murtagh, who were quiet as Colum entered the chamber and sat to listen to the disputes set before him by his people. Much of it was in Gaelic, which Morgan could only make out a few words here and there. 

Jamie, having noticed her furrowed brow, began to quietly translate for her so that she could understand what was going on. 

It was not until a MacKenzie man stepped up, dragging Laoghaire by her beautiful blonde tresses, that Morgan gasped. She saw Mrs. Fitz nearby, her eyes brimming with tears, the matron edging closer to Morgan naturally. Her head snapped between Jamie and Mrs. Fitz, then to Murtagh.

Jamie prowled away from them and Murtagh turned his eyes toward the young man with a frown.

"Mrs. Fitz, what's going on?" Morgan whispered fiercely, desperately wishing she could understand them as Laoghaire whimpered in her father's tight grasp.

"She's being accused of loose behavior and he wishes the MacKenzie will punish her for her disobedience," Murtagh translated, Mrs. Fitz too shaken to utter a peep.

"Loose behavior?" Morgan repeated, wondering what Laoghaire could have done to incur her father's wrath like this. 

Colum glanced down from his plinth, his decision teetering, Morgan prayed he'd let the girl off easy. He nodded.

Morgan's heart plummeted to her feet and Mrs. Fitz choked on a sob, clutching her hands together as she stared at her granddaughter. 

Jamie stepped forward, objecting in Gaelic.

"What is he doing?" Morgan gasped.

"He's... offering to take her punishment."

While Morgan was glad that Laoghaire wouldn't be beaten, her face drained of blood. "But he's still recovering-" she objected.

Dougal bent over his brother, whispering in his ear as Colum considered whether or not to let Jamie take the punishment. Eventually, Colum nodded and agreed to let the beating be transferred.

"He's chosen fists," Murtagh commented as Laoghaire was released and she rushed through the crowd, toward her grandmother. The two collided and Laoghaire wept quietly, Morgan's brows up as high as they would allow.

Mrs. Fitz guided the girl out of the hall and Morgan turned in horror to stand beside Murtagh and watch the beating. Jamie readied himself as Rupert took point, driving a hard blow into Jamie's abdomen. He doubled over in pain, the air whooshing from out of his lungs. Rupert waited until Jamie stood again and was ready, before delivering the next.

Morgan flinched at each hit, wishing to cover her ears, to cover her ears, to ignore the beating occurring right in front of her, but she could not look away, her brilliant cerulean eyes stretched in fright. "When does it stop?" she pleaded to Murtagh quietly, gripping his arm tightly, digging her fingernails into his wrist.

"When blood is drawn... usually," Murtagh grimaced, clearly not savoring this anymore than she was.

Rupert turned up and clocked Jamie square in the face. He lumbered back slightly, blinking a few times, before spitting out a mouthful of blood. Finally, it was over.

Rupert glanced back to Colum and Dougal. With a slight nod, Dougal acknowledged him and Morgan thought it had finished.

Instead, Rupert turned and drove a blow to his injured shoulder, causing Jamie to double over in pain, nearly falling to his knees. Morgan yelped, almost as if she could feel his pain, her fingers turning back to her own face as she observed the barbaric turn of events. 

"Come on, lass. Let's get him out of here," Murtagh muttered, drawing her toward where Jamie was standing, on one knee, wiping away bloody spittle that was coming out of his mouth. Murtagh went forward, grabbing Jamie underneath his good arm, hauling him to his feet so that he could be half-dragged out.

Murtagh brought him round to the kitchen, which was devoid of staff, and sat him down on a bench. 

Morgan's face was hot with disgust as she craned over Jamie, her fingers touching his face to see where the blood was coming from. He sat up, coming around, considerably more alert than he had been a moment ago. 

"Why did you do that?!" she breathed, turning next to the shoulder that had been hit rather hard.

"I couldnae let her get shamed publicly. It woulda taken her a long time to get over it and it only cost me a few aches and bruises," Jamie told her.

Morgan retrieved a cloth for her to wipe his mouth, her brows still pressed together in worry as she noticed Mrs. Fitz approaching with a cup of willow bark tea. 

"Thank ye, Jamie. Bless yer kind soul," Mrs. Fitz simpered, holding back tears as she gave him the cup. She hurried away before she was crying, likely going to soothe Laoghaire, who Morgan didn't think was deserving of such a beating either.

"You're an idiot," Morgan proclaimed, scowling at Jamie as she checked his injury. It was red and a bit irritated from the punch, but the sutures had held. "I've never met anyone who so willingly places themselves in danger and then brushes it off afterward."

"Ye sound almost worried aboot me, Miss. Avalon," Jamie grinned, his teeth still red from blood.

"Of course I'm worried! Over the course of less than a week you've gone and gotten yourself into trouble. What are you going to do when I'm not here to ease your pains?" she scowled, placing a hand on her hip as she leered at him.

"Yer leavin'?" the stupid smile fell of his face. "O' course, ye have yer cousin and her father to return to."

Morgan didn't know why she felt bad about leaving Jamie. Or even Mrs. Fitz or Laoghaire. She'd barely known them at all and yet there was a sadness in leaving people who actually treated her like a whole person. "I'll be leaving tomorrow with a tinker," she confided, wrapping his bandage back up. "You can remove this bandage on Sunday. The sutures won't be pleasant to take out, but perhaps you can ask Murtagh to do so."

"When yer done helpin' yer cousin, ye could always come back, ye ken?" Jamie objected halfheartedly. "Would be safer for MacKenzie men to transport ye back to England."

"Perhaps," Morgan said through a tightlipped smile. There would be no returning from Orkney, because that wasn't where she was truly destined. Maybe she had come to like Jamie more than she'd care to admit.  _ He's my patient, I shouldn't be feeling this way. _ "Goodbye, Jamie Fraser."

"Morgan," he caught her hand, staring up at her with cat-like dark blue eyes. The moment that she stood there, she noticed many more details about him that she had not before. Like how his hair was a dark mix of red hues, amber, cinnamon, roan, copper; like that of a red deer's pelt or that his long lashes were nearly black at the tips, but turned to auburn and then blond at the roots. His jaw was strong, mouth wide, but he had high cheekbones and a long, straight nose. She'd always thought he had an impressive physique, but even hunched she could see the straining in his muscles; he was athletic like a swimmer or a basketball player.

There she was, like a deer in front of headlights, unable to move until she noticed a bit of movement from the corner of her eye. Removing her hand, she gave him an apologetic final look before noticing Laoghaire was poking her head through the doorway. "It appears someone else would like to speak with you," she told him quietly, turning away and pardoning herself for the final time.

She thought she was going to have a heart palpitation from how loud it was hammering in her chest, nearly choking her. Tomorrow she would return to Inverness and then Craigh na Dun before going home. Home. Where a dead body would be uncovered along with her car... And she and Gillian had disappeared without a trace. Realization smacked her hard in the face as she considered the implications she might run into when appearing in her own reality. What if she was blamed for the murder? What about Will?

Even the hearth roaring and the blankets around her did not chase away the chill of the doubts in her head. Gillian had screwed her more than she had realized initially. If she returned, she would be subject to explaining where Gillian was or why she had killed Greg. What was she returning to? A mess and a father that barely remembered her? Why would she leave this place if she could have a new beginning with people who were earnest and kind to her? Surely, Morgan wasn't this stupid. Especially considering what she had just experienced, a feeling that never had crossed her with Will. 

It was too late. She had already requested to go with the tinker. Come tomorrow, she'd either have to commit to going home or find a new path in this world. Taking back her request would only be suspicious... She would go home, even if that meant facing the police. Her father needed her.

* * *

Morning came and Morgan found herself not especially eager to get away from Castle Leoch. Her stomach ailed her, twisting and turning nervously as she envisioned multiple, dark situations that could arise away from the safety and protection of the keep. Her head was spinning by the time Mrs. Fitz saw to her, a basket filled with bannocks and cheese for the journey.

"Laoghaire is sad to see ye go, as am I," Mrs. Fitz told her, smiling sadly. "A shame ye couldnae stay longer. More than jus' the two of us shall be missin' ye."

Morgan didn't know if Mrs. Fitz was referring to Jamie or if there were other servants that had liked the extra pair of hands helping. "Tell Laoghaire I said goodbye. I wish she could have been here."

"I've set her to the kitchen to keep her from her father's eye," Mrs. Fitz admitted.

"I'm sorry I never got to go to mass with you," Morgan sighed, realizing it would have been tomorrow that they'd go.

"Maybe on yer way back from Orkney," Mrs. Fitz said hopefully, though there was an unspoken understanding between the two of them that they'd likely never meet again.

"Perhaps... Thank you again, Mrs. Fitz," Morgan insisted, turning toward the carriage where the tinker was waiting. However, before she was able to set down her few belongings, Dougal materialized like a spirit from the mist. 

He frowned down at her, clearly still suspicious of her, though he did not voice this. "The MacKenzie wishes to see ye," he told her sternly, directing her away from the tinker. 

"Oh," Morgan breathed, wondering why. "Alright," she agreed, following Dougal away from the courtyard and back into the castle. Maybe Colum just wished to say goodbye to her and it was easier for Morgan to walk over to him. However, they traipsed down hallways that Morgan had not walked before, going down through the castle rather than up to Colum's office.

The air became musty and slightly humid from being beneath ground level. Candles guttered near their stumps and a fire roared in a hearth containing a cauldron. There were various bottles, a dirty alchemy station, discarded herbs and other questionable items in the large room, consisting of a dirt floor. Colum was waiting below, turning away from the fire to gaze at her. 

"My laird," she greeted, curtsying properly.

"Do ye have any connections with Clan Beaton?" Colum asked her, beginning on a tangent that Morgan had not seen coming.

"No, I'm not Scottish," Morgan admitted.

"Clan Beaton are renowned for being healers in the Highlands. This room belonged to the healer before, Davie Beaton. We lost him to a fever just before yer arrival and have been sorely in need of a healer. Ye have their dark hair... the Beatons' that is," Colum indicated, motioning to the Surgery around them. 

A coat of dust covered the room and Morgan was beginning to understand what he was suggesting. "Ye say ye have a cousin in Orkney. Cousin on which side?"

Morgan's mouth dried, but she knew the answer as it loomed in front of her. "My mother," she whispered, feeling Dougal's daunting presence behind her. 

"I understand ye've training beneath several doctors. Yer skill may rival that of yer fellow, distant clansmen. After all, ye grew up in England - Liverpool, correct? And since yer cousin no longer needs yer help, perhaps it would be wise ye stayed safe here, took up the work, married..." Colum drawled, bringing the conclusion around to where she was suspecting. He was telling her to renounce her claims that her mother was Spanish and to say she was descended of the Beatons. He wished for her to remain in Leoch to work as their new healer.

While part of her was happy, another part of her was terrified of this side of Colum. He was telling her who she was to be, what she was to do... He wasn't going to allow her to leave. Words didn't come to her lips, instead her breath quickened, and she began hyperventilating. 

"Are you keeping me as a prisoner or because you really need a healer?" Morgan forced out, her voice small, almost childish and pitiful.

Colum flicked his eyes to her, his hand folded neatly in front of him. "I dinnae see ye as much of a threat," he admitted. "Yer small, weak, and kindhearted. All traits that will only end in misery for ye, especially considering that yer unmarried. Although, me interests are me interests and I require a healer. From what I gather, ye havenae much to turn to, and at least here ye shall be safe. A sick father who dinnae remember you dinnae make much of a home. Ye will have a warm bed, fine clothes, and be treated with the dignity and respect of yer posting, doctor."

Colum passed by her, Morgan leaning on the dusty table in front of her, bracing herself as she tried to put the pieces together and understand what was happening. "You're going to force me into marriage too? And tell everyone I'm related to the Beatons?"

Colum paused, turning away from the stairs. "Aye. It's safer for ye this way. Their clan is in shambles, no one will question it... As for yer marriage, technically yer an English citizen. Captain Randall believes ye are in league with us, which puts ye in a precarious situation. If he were to come knocking, by right, he can take ye from our possession. Now, unless ye fancy being taken by him, ye need not marry, but I assumed ye would want nothing to do with the bastard considerin' the look on yer face everytime I mention him."

"At this point, I am in league with you, aren't I? Even if you're twisting my arm," Morgan chuckled anxiously.

"Dear God, child. I'm not gaunnae marry ye off tomorrow, nor give ye no choice," Colum snapped, the power in his voice making her quail. His eyes softened abruptly, but one looked tossed toward his brother, he stiffened once again. "Ye have time. At least till after the Gathering. I intend on sending ye with Dougal to collect rent and ye should be married before then."

The pair departed, Dougal still glaring at her, as if he wasn't as convinced of Morgan's harmlessness as Colum. Not a moment later than they were gone did Morgan hear the door lock behind them and her vision frayed, head spinning, and she turned and vomited all over the floor. Laughter bubbled in her chest, tears streaming down her face as she resigned herself to laying on the cool, dungeon floor. This was her home now. Doctor Avalon finally had her own practice! Her minor hope of somehow getting stuck here had come true! Only it came with marriage and being held against her will.


	5. The Newest Rumor in Leoch

Coping was difficult. Attempting to wrap her mind around the mess she had been thrown into was a challenge, especially because she no longer would be helping around Leoch in the manner that had soothed her. According to Colum, she was to be related to the Beatons on her mother's side, be that through a half-brother, to make it legitimate  _ enough _ . She'd already told a few people that her mother was Spanish, which put a kink in her lineage until it was asserted her half-uncle would be a Beaton. No one would care who, hell it could have been the late Davie Beaton for all Colum cared, as long as it covered Morgan's tracks.

He risked a good amount going to these lengths to secure her as a healer, including incurring English wrath if Captain Randall found out she was pigeon-holing there and he wanted her enough to make a ruckus about it. Morgan realized he was not wrong; she needed to marry if she truly wished to be safe in Scotland. While an unsettling thought, Morgan tried to place it in the back of her mind, wondering how soon the Gathering would be upon them. She need only ask Mrs. Fitz to want to throw up again, learning that the Gathering was just a few meager weeks away.

So she took to distracting herself, going through the Surgery and the plethora of objects and ingredients that had been left behind, including Davie Beaton's journal. Mostly everything aside from the preserved herbs were trash. From sheep dung, wood lice, and pickled leeches, there was an answer for every strange substance that was jarred or contained neatly in a cabinet with inelegantly scrawled labels. 

Morgan tossed them all, keeping only the dried herbs that were still good, mucking out the entire dungeon and cleaning it as best she could. This included sanitizing the alchemy set, the jars, the vials, and the containers that held the herbs. She used a combination of alcohol, followed by hot water imbued with antimicrobial plants to chase away the dust and grime. Needles were placed in jars of alcohol and she collected a fair amount of clean linen for bandages until she was proud to gaze at the Surgery, which was as sanitary as it would get for the 18th century.

More herbs would need to be collected, hung on the rafters, dried and stockpiled. When winter set in, Morgan hoped to be rather well stocked as not to want for any herbs. A gentle huff escaped her lips as she removed her smock and hung it at the base of the stairs. At least here, the cool musty cellar was her small bit of peace where she could work unbothered, though she'd yet to have a patient yet. 

The door creaked open. "Mis-Er, Doctor Avalon?" Laoghaire trailed down the steps. Colum had insisted that she be addressed by her proper title. According to him, if she'd gone through the harrowing years of studying beneath doctors, she was a doctor. Oh, he just didn't know how true it was.

"Laoghaire, you can just call me Morgan in private," she insisted, setting down Davie Beaton's journal. 

"My grandmother sent for ye. Says morning mass is gaunnae happen soon and ye'd like to go," Laoghaire explained, having dressed in a slightly nicer dress than usual, indicating that she would also be going.

"Ah," Morgan fished out a bonnet from a nearby bag and tied it around her hair before trailing up the stairs after the girl. "Yes, I would like to go." Her hand drove into her pocket subconsciously, thumbing the smooth stones of her rosary. If anything, she needed God's guidance more than ever right now.

Leaving the Surgery behind, Rupert leaned up off the wall, and leered after the two females. "Where dae ye think yer goin'?" he inquired, trailing them.

"To church," Laoghaire sneered down her nose, throwing him a nasty glare. The girl had been impish with them, especially since Morgan had become the MacKenzie healer. Making it blatantly clear that their following wasn't required, as Morgan simply had no reason to run away as they seemed to think.

They met with Mrs. Fitz out in the tiltyard, who fussed with Laoghaire's hair, stuffing it into a bonnet so that they all looked modest for mass. The matron did make a point of glancing over dubiously at Rupert. "I dinnae ken ye were an upstanding Christian," she sniffed. "Last time I saw ye at church ye were a wee lad."

Rupert grumbled, not as keen to take the bait as Angus would have been.

Leaving Leoch behind, they journeyed down to the neighboring village of Cranesmuir. The church was built of stone, a cross set upon the top of its peak. Villagers flocked in for the early morning mass, most of whom Morgan had never met before. They seemed familiar with one another, but didn't take notice of their newest parish member who was flanked by Mrs. Fitz and Laoghaire. 

Finding a set of pews that would fit the three of them, there were no books to be removed so that the attendees might read. The mass was to be held in Latin, beginning with the Kyrie, in which many of the men joined in singing. Not having the music in front of her, Morgan glanced along, simply assuming that the Gregorian chant was being sung as intended. However, as the mass continued into the Gloria, she was dismayed to find that not a single woman was singing along. She might have opened her own mouth had Laoghaire and Mrs. Fitz not been dutifully glancing on in a doleful manner.

Most of the mass considered in this somber manner, punctuated by the priest that headed it all. Listening to the passages he selected and the vindictiveness in which she spoke, she understood that in spite of his Latin (which was poor outside of the scriptures he read), he was about fire and brimstone. He berated women who stepped out of turn and claimed that it was a man's job to shepherd their wives and daughters. 

Upon the conclusion of the mass, Mrs. Fitz glanced over at Morgan expectantly. "What did ye think? Is it similar to yer own masses?"

"No," Morgan said quietly. "Women are allowed to sing and the Gospel is preached more, along with the life lessons we should take away from it. This mass was very... severe."

"Ye should meet Father Bain," Mrs. Fitz insisted, almost as if she hadn't heard Morgan's remarks.

Ushered forward, they waited in line that was preceded before the Father, who was speaking to the parishioners. Eventually, they came before the stout man, who gazed pensively at Laoghaire before smiling tentatively at Mrs. Fitz. 

"Good morning to ye Mrs. FitzGibbons, Miss. MacKenzie..." he paused on Morgan.

"Dominus Vobiscum," she greeted warmly. Even if she was not fond of the Father's sermon, she would still treat him with the respect he deserved. 

"This is Miss. Morgan Avalon, the new healer for Castle Leoch," Mrs. Fitz introduced with a smile. 

"Ah, I did hear that the Laird was keeping a Sassenach," Father Bain said thoughtfully, observing her. "Dominus Vobiscum," he returned, his eyes intrigued as he stared at her. "Saint Raphael?" he caught the glint of her patron saint necklace. "Befitting of any good healer, but I'm curious, are most English not Protestant?"

"Yes, Father, but my mother was from Barcelona," she elaborated. "Her Faith was always much stronger than my father's."

"Our Church hosts the most benevolent women, as I expect your mother must have been to raise such a warm daughter," Father Bain replied. "How did you enjoy the mass today?"

"I enjoyed the passages of which you read. You had the rapt attention of your congregation, which is rare in this day and age," she chewed on the phrasing, trying to be as ambiguous as possible without slighting the priest. "I look forward to next week's mass."

Father Bain preened at the compliment. "We have weekday masses as well if time allows for you to attend."

Being on the priest's good side would be important if someone decided to accuse her of witchcraft. Just showing face was enough to save her if she had decent rapport with him. Even if she didn't like the mass, she was still in God's house and could pray during all of the sermon. "If time allows, I would enjoy that," Morgan agreed.

Mrs. Fitz began speaking to Father Bain low about an issue someone in her family was having, leaving for Laoghaire and Morgan to step to the side. "Ye lied right to his face. Innit a sin tae do that?" Laoghaire questioned mischievously.

"I did not wish to offend him," Morgan sighed, praying to God that he would not punish her for being kind.

"Yer church sounds more fun than ours," Laoghaire admitted. "His sermons dinnae change much. Mostly aboot wummin being naturally promiscuous and the like... Although, he seemed tae like ye, so ye've at least got that goin' fer ye."

"I'd prefer to stay on his good side, after all, if ill were to befall me, I'd like to think Father Bain would pray for me," Morgan said lightly, trying to remind the girl it wasn't about having fun at mass. Still, she didn't think she'd be attending those extra masses.

When Mrs. Fitz rejoined them, they headed back to Castle Leoch, in addition to Rupert who had been lingering at the back of the congregation. Even if the time there hadn't been too enjoyable, Mrs. Fitz was right impressed with Morgan and pleased that she had taken the time to attend.

Dividing to accomplish their duties, Morgan set to putting her mind to the tasks ahead. No marriage to mind her, she swore not to shirk in her duties. This was her first official practice and she planned on her reputation being stellar. Most of the sick calls were from colds or ingesting something sour, foul, or once, even poisonous. She found, between her work, the ability to annoy Angus by sending him on errands to make himself useful. The ploy wouldn't work on Rupert, but perhaps word had spread from Colum and Dougal about her now being eligible to marry.

That would explain how half of the cases she handled ended up being nothing more than stomach aches men complained of just to have a few minutes of peace down below in the Surgery with her. While she'd heard not a peep of it come from any of their mouths, she expected from the gifts of 'thanks' for treating them, that Dougal had spilled the beans at the very least. Seeing that the story of her being related to the Beatons had spread, many more of the Leoch residents were willing to accept her with open arms.

The door banged open and shut, which she expected it to be Angus from the sound of it. Usually, people announced themselves in case she was treating another patient. Only Angus was belligerent enough to trundle down those steps without entreating her first.

"Angus, I told you, if you're going to cause such a ruckus-" Morgan turned around from her journal, which she kept steady ledgers on her patients and administered medicines. When she set the quill down, she turned to see that it wasn't Angus, but Jamie. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to fuss at you, but Angus is notorious for slamming that door. He'll break it off the hinges one of these days."

Jamie glanced around Surgery, somewhat impressed by the work that had been put into the dank cellar. "I dinnae think this place has ever been this clean," he remarked. 

"What did you do this time?" she sighed, leaning against the table and crossing her arms. 

"Ay, I cannae visit a friend?" Jamie questioned, amusement bright in his dark blue eyes.

"Not when I'm working," Morgan scowled, turning her back to him to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks. It was dark in this room, so a bit difficult for anyone to make out color on faces unless they were right beside the fire. 

"Ye dinnae seem to be workin'," he observed.

"I was writing my notes on my last patient. I need to keep detailed reports to be certain I do not give conflicting medicines and to keep a good patient record," Morgan explained, picking her quill back up and setting back to work. 

"I did jam me finger quite good-" Jamie drawled.

Morgan pursed her lips, stood up straight, and turned back around to face him. "Of course," she dropped the edge on her tone. It had been a long day and that was no fault of Jamie's. "Sit down, I'll take a look at it."

Jamie sat down on a stool, waiting patiently for her to finish up the notes before she joined him on a stool of her own. Taking the offered hand, she turned it over, frowning slightly as she looked for the inflamed finger. 

"Jamie, which one is it? I don't really-"

The man was grinning like a child in front of her. 

She dropped his hand. "So, just making excuses to come and find me, then?" Morgan pressed, crossing her arms at him as he lounged in the stool, stretching his long legs out.

"Word around the castle is that Colum wants ye married after the Gathering," Jamie started, his eyes set on the fire, his well hewn profile turned away from her. "I assume ye've been dealing with a lot of suitors come yer way."

"Have you come to join them?" she pressed, tone sharper than she had intended. With her suspicions confirmed, she couldn't help but feel like she was being bartered off like a prime piece of meat. All she wanted to do was work, but half of it was filled with stinking Scottish men who wanted to ogle her, imagining having her in bed, marrying her in just a few weeks time. 

Jamie turned to look at her, the mischievous smile he had been wearing falling away when he saw her bitter expression. "Oh no, I-" but whatever joke he was going to give her died on his lips. "What's the matter, Morgan?"

"What's the matter? What's the  _ matter _ ?" she huffed, feeling her chest rise hysterically as the severity of her situation pulled down on her again. For days she had been ignoring it, brushing it aside with work to keep her distracted, but each night she prayed at her beside that she'd not be miserable with whatever husband she was assigned. "I did not stay here willingly Jamie and on top of that, I'm being forced to marry someone!" she snapped, her eyes burning, threatening to leak out tears. "And everyday, unfamiliar men come in here pretending to be hurt, just to stare at me. They don't care that I'm a doctor, that I'm here to help people. I know all they're thinking about when they complain of stomach pains. They're undressing me with their eyes and seeing me in bed! I don't know what sort of joke you were going to play on me, but I don't appreciate it!"

Jamie stood up, the firelight casting a long shadow over her as she sniffed, her cheeks now wet as the emotions overwhelmed her. All the pent up fear and disgust, the disappointment and bitterness overwhelmed her as she cried like a child. "Shh, shh," Jamie entreated, wrapping her in a warm embrace, gentle despite how much he dwarfed her. "I'm sorry, I dinnae think. I dinnae think of how ye were feeling or what ye were dealing with." He brushed down her hair with a rough hand. 

Eventually, once Morgan had calmed down, he set her down on the Surgery bed, retrieving a piece of clean linen for her to wipe her face. Kneeling in front of her, Jamie gave her a reassuring smile. "Ye cry anymore and all of that bonnie river blue will run outta yer eyes," he told her, pinching her cheek lightly. 

"I'm scared, Jamie. I don't know a lot of people here. Colum told me he'd give me a choice, but what choice is there? Those I do know, I know barely," she whispered, speaking from behind the cloth. 

"I ken yer scared, but it's for yer safety... I'll talk to me uncle on yer behalf," Jamie offered, but she wasn't certain of what he could do. He was the only man who had truly been kind to her. Of course the others could be cordial, but Jamie had been nice to her from the start. Still, even entertaining the idea of marrying him made her stomach roil. She barely knew Jamie.

"Thank you, but I doubt it'll do little good," Morgan admitted. "I just need to consider my options and accept the hand that has been dealt to me."

"Dinnae fash, I'll have talk with him."

* * *

Jamie left Morgan with tears still in her eyes. The young woman was still quivering, be it a combination of exhaustion, misery, and fear. A lot had been dumped onto her plate and he could barely blame her for breaking down eventually. She'd been forced to stay in Scotland and put down roots, all because Colum had wanted a good healer. While he sympathized with her, he wasn't completely innocent in his intentions in visiting her. Morgan was the most eligible bachelorette in the castle and a beautiful one at that. Older than typical marrying age, she was responsible, well-mannered, intelligent, and well spoken. 

There was a stubbornness in her, but she often shoved it down to preserve herself. She was more clever than most thought, only seeing the small, petite woman with luminous blue eyes framed by long dark lashes. Jamie found himself rather taken with her since he'd first met her in the forest. It hadn't helped that her chemise had risen up past her thighs or that she floundered helplessly, but at the same time still tried to preserve her modesty while trying to free herself.

Just remembering her small waist pressed up against his in the saddle, his fingers running across her flat stomach as they rode... He'd be a liar to say that he didn't wish himself to be matched with her. Still, that wasn't his purpose in seeking out his uncle. Morgan was petrified and he felt it was his duty to speak out in regards to her wellbeing. 

Jamie happened upon his uncle's chambers while he was being fitted for the Gathering. The tailor was from Edinburgh, adorned in a more prissy, English fashion. He had a wig on and zipped around the laird as if he were a little squirrel. However, as Jamie came to full observation alongside his other uncle, Dougal, he realized that the tailor had made a fatal mistake. 

Colum gazed at the tailor, who gave him an excited smile. Reading the laird was always difficult, but even then Jamie knew what was coming... the red hot fury of the MacKenzie. "The coat is longer than usual standard," Colum began slowly.

The tailor nodded, not quite catching the drift in the man's tone. "Your laird is hardly standard himself. A one of a kind coat for a one of a kind man."

Dougal nearly groaned.

"I was told that ye were the finest tailor in the Highlands, recently come from Edinburgh," Colum entreated, glaring into the mirror.

"My wife's family are MacKenzies," the tailor chirped excitedly. "I always welcome a chance to bring her for a visit."

"Tell me, does yer wife's family openly encourage ye to mock their laird?" the tailor did not have an answer for this. "Does a man's frock coat typically come to just the knee? Did I request that me own coat be made longer?"

"No."

"Did ye think my legs should be hidden, as if they're something that ought to be ashamed of?" Colum roared, tearing off the coat, flinging it into the tailor's face as the small man began quaking. Metal sang from its scabbard as Colum removed a dagger, pointing it in the man's face. "Make me a standard coat and deliver it before tomorrow afternoon."

The tailor sputtered and then scampered out of the office. Colum sank into his chair behind his desk and took a hearty sip from his chalice. His pain must've been ailing him considerably for his mood to be so foul. He set his eyes to Jamie, giving him a scrupulous look. 

"Jamie..." he asserted. "Could ye fetch me, Doctor Avalon?"

"In... a moment," Jamie drawled. "I actually wished tae speak to ye aboot her."

Colum raised a brow, gesturing in front of him for Jamie to sit. "I have noticed ye've taken an interest in the young woman."

Taking a seat, Jamie considered carefully what he was going to say. "Aye, she's a bonnie lass, hard tae not take notice of her," he admitted before going forward with his original point. "Doctor Avalon is quite upset aboot this entire ordeal. She's afraid yer going to marry her to someone unkind... Men are pestering her when she's tryin' to work-"

"It comes with the territory," Colum interrupted. "Ye really came all this way just tae bother me about Doctor Avalon?"

"Sounds like the lad might be infatuated with her," Dougal decided. "Many of the men are."

"If ye wanted to marry her, ye might've said that at the beginning," Colum deduced.

"That's not the point I'm tryin' to make," Jamie protested, but his uncles would hear little of it. 

"Then yer not interested?" Colum suggested.

"Nay, I am! But-" he'd laid his hand open for the two to read.

"I told Doctor Avalon that she could have her pick o' men that were interested in her. Ye being an outlaw does produce a bit of a problem for us, but unless ye get cleared of yer charges soon, yer not returning to Lollybroch anytime soon," Colum gazed past Dougal. "This may actually work a bit better. Young Jamie would act as a good retainer to the doctor."

"Miss. Avalon does seem comfortable around Jamie from what Angus and Rupert tell me," Dougal nodded.

"Jamie, if Doctor Avalon chooses ye, I'll allow it," Colum informed him stoutly. 

_ If she chooses me _ , he thought smartly, lowering a glare at his uncles. "It's still not much of a choice."

Colum let out a long sigh, sitting up straight, jingling with a key on the drawer of his desk. Sliding it open, he sorted through a stack of papers before finding what he sought. "Ah," he delicately removed a poster, which had been folded, and slid it across the desk to Jamie. "Go on then, take a look."

Uncertainly, he flipped it over, and unfolded the parchment to see. As he had with his own countenance, Jamie knew this was a 'Wanted' poster. Rather than his own face, that of a beautiful young woman stared back, wild hair strewn about her gentle face, full lips, and large, innocent eyes. "Five pounds sterling!" Jamie gasped. "She has nae done anything."

"For suspicion of treason apparently. They must really believe that she was workin' with yer gang," Colum's eyes went over to Dougal. "I suspect Captain Randall is behind this. Doctor Avalon made remarks that he had molested her before her escape. The lil' lassie is terrified of' him when I mention his name."

Jamie's fingers curled at the edges of the paper, the notice reading 'Morgan le Fay'. "Bastard forgot 'er name," he grumbled, a red hot fire in his belly as Miss. Avalon's name being strewn through the mud for not having done anything. The wild eyes she had made when tumbling down the hill, the fear of a man's touch when he offered to help her. Whatever Black Jack Randall had done to her, it was enough to grip the woman to the core. She had stated she didn't think he had raped her, but how could she be certain?

"Aye, an the name they've given her does them no thanks. These have only been distributed in Inverness," Dougal informed him. "Most of the folks thought it a jest."

"Ye understand now? If it's treason against bein' English, then she must become Scottish. Once she does, Captain Randall will require a lot more than his indignance to take her and no one will grant him a writ for a young woman who has nae done anything," Colum explained. "If ye were to marry her, she would stay safely tucked in Leoch for the majority of the time."

The prospect was tantalizing as he gazed at the poster. He could protect her by putting her into Colum's care. With expertise like hers, letting her fall into the clutches of the English only meant she'd suffer at Black Jack Randall's hand. "Only if she agrees," Jamie insisted, still not wishing to remove choice from her completely. 

"Well, if this concludes this conversation, can ye at least fetch her for me. I'm in need of her medical skills."

Jamie stood up, his hands sweaty against his trousers as he left the office and knew he had to face Morgan again. His original intentions had been to try and have Colum insist that men let her do her work in peace, but that had quickly shifted to suggest that Jamie take her as a wife. Angus eyed in at the door to the Surgery. 

"Twice in a row? Did ye hit yer head so hard ye forget ye were here?" Angus asked sharply.

"I'm here on Colum's order now," Jamie informed him, opening the door, careful not to slam it open. Descending the steps, he came round to see that Morgan had returned to the desk in front of the hearth, using the light of the flames to continue her recording. She rolled the toe of her boot on the ground, humming lightly to herself. 

Her voice was so bonnie that Jamie wished to hear her actually sing, but had come to realize that the doctor was doleful when it came to any talent aside from her healing skill. "Morgan," he entreated, watching her pause.

The young woman turned her head to look at him, her countenance silhouetted against the flickering fire light. The curve of her jaw was highlighted against her long, slender neck. Her vibrant fox-like eyes settled on him, her full pink lips curving up at him slightly. His heartstrings tugged under the breadth of her sweet gaze. 

"I didn't hear you that time. It seems you are capable of learning new tricks," the doctor smirked, tucking some of her stray hair behind one ear. 

"I'm nae here on personal business," Jamie told her, wishing that he was. Even then, he could imagine her soft, slender form pressed against him. Despite the last time she had been crying, he savored the moments beside her, even if that meant his job was cheering her up. "Colum has asked to see ye. For medicinal purposes."

"Ah, and he couldn't have sent anyone?" she asked, arching a perfectly manicured brow at him. 

"I can go get Rupert, if that's who ye perfer," Jamie suggested.

"No," she smiled shyly. "I'll go when I'm summoned."

He noticed in the firelight that her skin was a shade fairer than when they had originally met. She had warm, sunkissed skin their first encounter, but it seemed the more she was cooped up in the castle, the fairer she became. Being in a dark cellar with no natural light did little good to improve her complexion, but he spotted a few freckles on her cheekbones as she passed him, her English heritage more pronounced. 

"There's supposed to be a minstrel here tonight, isn't there?" Morgan inquired before she took her leave. 

"Aye, if I recall correctly."

"You wouldn't mind being my translator would you? I'm afraid I've yet to pick Gaelic up to add to my arsenal."

Jamie chuckled at her. "Ye learn another language and yer head might get too big for yer shoulders. How much knowledge can that small frame of yers hold?"

"Will you translate or not for me?"

"Aye, I'd be honored to," Jamie told her.

"Don't make it more complicated than it has to be," she sighed wearily, starting up the stairs, brushing her slender fingers against his shoulders before he was left in the cellar. He caught the slight, forlorn glance over her shoulder, as she continued to the top of the stairs.

Jamie touched the shoulder, the shoulder that she had healed and berated him about working too much. 

Rupert was frowning at the top of the stairs, having let his charge go throughout the castle on her own. Angus and Rupert had been exceedingly lax with their postings, as they weren't too worried about Morgan trying to slip away. At this point, despite the tears she had shed, Jamie was certain that she wouldn't run. The doctor was too terrified of what might hurt her outside of Leoch to run. Even if this new world frightened her, it was more familiar than the newfound cruelty of her kinsmen. 

"Are ye courting her?" Rupert asked.

"Isnae half the castle courtin' the doctor?" Jamie retorted glibly.

"Ye dinnae answer me question," Rupert followed after Jamie. 

"Why? Are ye interested in her too?"

"Angus is, but she's a bonnie lass, I wouldnae mind havin' her in the sheets. I dinnae about marry, she's smarter than Dougal or Rupert give her credit for," Rupert frowned. "Bonnie smiles and makes sweet eyes, she's been makin' the men who pass through here weak at the knees."

"To her annoyance," Jamie said stiffly, disliking the casual manner of which Rupert referred to sleeping with her. "She's tryin' tae work she the men are fawnin' over her."

"Dinnae try to fool me like ye weren't earlier," Rupert snorted. "Ye think I'm dumb? Ye got eyes for the girl, it's obvious ye dobbit."

"I'm not aboot to force her."

"Ye afraid she'll cut ye up? I watched her rebreak a bone this afternoon and set it without as much as blinkin' an eye - man was howling bloody murder- but when we bring a lame pup in she gets all teary-eyed."

"The Sassenach is good at her job."

"That's why I'm a wee bit nervous about the MacKenzie pushing marriage on 'er. I can tell the lass is barely holdin' onto her temper these days," Rupert told Jamie.

_ She already lost it with me _ , Jamie told him silently. "Ye sound almost sympathetic. Some might come tae think yer gettin' soft, Rupert," he jabbed, drawing a scowl from the MacKenzie.

"Grab a drink we me, will ya?" Rupert entreated, nearly dragging Jamie along to the kitchen with him. They took a seat and were served up a couple of tankards. "I need me a bonnie lass who isnae too smart for 'er own good."

"Ye dinnae want a learned wife?" Jamie said incredulously.

"God, no!" Rupert exclaimed. "With a smart wife, she may think she ken better than ye."

"And what if she does?" Jamie challenged.

"Och, away wit that nonsense."

"Yer afraid of the wee doctor. She cannae hurt a fly and yer afraid o' how smart she is," Jamie realized, wielding this new information against Rupert. 

"No wummin has business being tha smart. Why'd think they cannae officially be doctors?" Rupert deflected, but Jamie knew he'd made his checkmate. Even if the MacKenzie found Avalon attractive, she was as dastardly as her namesake, but not for magic. 

Jamie enjoyed his drink with Rupert for a while, continuing to poke fun at him, much to the older man's chagrin. Just as it had happened on the evening that Morgan had treated him, expecting to leave early the next morning, he noticed Laoghaire poking her head out, but not enough to be fully visible. He suppressed a sigh, trying not to betray to Rupert that he'd noticed the girl.

Laoghaire was a bonnie girl, but she was just that; a girl. Jamie had taken her punishment to preserve her honor, not because he had feelings for her. Still, Laoghaire had harried him since that day, trying to entice him, which might again incur the wrath of her father who had sought punishment originally for her disobedience. 

"I'll see ye at the show tonight," Jamie pardoned, noticing that Rupert was a handful of tankards deeper into ale than he was. It was doubtful that his cousin even noticed him taking leave as he approached Laoghaire around the corner. She flung herself at him, pressing her body to his in contrived excitement. "Woah there," Jamie said, almost as he might when taming horses.

"Jamie," she assaulted him in Gaelic, speaking so quickly that he could barely catch snippets in between. 

He set her down back on her feet. "Laoghaire," he said sternly. "We cannae do this."

"Why?" she challenged openly.

"I dinnae hae feelings for ye. I took your punishment to preserve your honor, but dinnae mistake me," Jamie said, watching her countenance shift, her lips pulling down and her expression becoming crestfallen.

"There's another then?" Laoghaire deduced. 

"Aye, before I helped ye," he confirmed.

Laoghaire sucked on the truth, her blue eyes turning up to him, icy and cold. "Is it Mistress Morgan?"

Jamie's hesitation confirmed the girl's suspicion.

"Fine," Laoghaire brushed off. "Miss. Morgan is a sweet wummin. But should ye change yer mind..."

"Be careful Laoghaire," Jamie warned her. "I dinnae help ye for ye to get caught again."

Laoghaire frowned at him and backed away. "Ye be kind to her if ye have feelings for her. I like Miss. Morgan, but she's fragile. My nan will be none too pleased if ye hurt her too."

It seemed that Morgan had made friends while in Leoch. Jamie sighed and gave her a reassuring nod. "Ye ken me. I willnae dishonor her."

"I cannae say the same for hurting," Laoghaire sniffed, still a bit put off by her rejection. But before Jamie could offer her comfort, the girl spun on her heel and hurried down the hall. 

Jamie blinked a few times, trying to process what had just happened. _ She has some sense about her. I wonder if that's due to Morgan's reach. Has she been around with Laoghaire? _ Truthfully, he didn't know the blonde girl too well, but he knew of her reputation to flounce between men. While he wasn't certain if she was a maiden still, Morgan's influence seemed to have been positive on her. If Mrs. Fitz was fond of Morgan, that could only mean that the woman was earnest and hardworking. Much to his dismay, he'd been at the stables more than he had realized, losing the ability to monitor closely what was going on. 

A din drew his attention, folks beginning to mill toward the main hall. He suspected that the bard was setting up for their performance, thus drawing the attention of the castle folk. Expelling a pent up breath he didn't know he'd been holding, Jamie fell in step with the rest of the crowd.

Murtagh flagged him down, mentioning that Colum was in a rather foul mood that evening. Jamie nodded, having experienced it first hand, noticing that Morgan was seated beside Laoghaire. Cursing himself silently, he approached the two females and sat beside Morgan. He could feel the burning of other men staring, having not tempted Laoghaire's glare to join them, but she softened considerably when he sat with them on the bench. 

"I was just tellin' Miss. Morgan how lovely she looks tonight," Laoghaire declared loudly, eying Jamie with a hard pressed look, daring him to say otherwise.

Morgan chuckled dismissively at the girl, brushing her hand against Laoghaire's casually. "I'm the same as always, Laoghaire. Please."

Jamie gazed down at Morgan, adorned in the same modest brown gown she had been in earlier. Her long hair had been tucked into a messy bun while she was working, a few shorter pieces of hair flying stray from the bun. Giving Laoghaire a firm smile, Jamie asserted, "I agree, Doctor Avalon is beautiful this evening."

Laoghaire's lips curled up in satisfaction as the English woman sputtered between them. "Oh, look, the bard-" she objected, trying to distract herself from the compliment. Color had crept up her neck and across her cheekbones and nose. Her blush almost made her appear feverish.

However, a stopper was put to conversation as the bard, Gwyllyn took his spot on the plinth, where the laird's table was typically positioned. His voice was a savory tenor, rising and falling against the thrum of his lute. None of their bench spoke, until he saw Morgan leaning forward, her brows pulled together as she admired the tune. In her hand nearest to Laoghaire he noticed a silver chalice filled with Colum's Rhenish. 

"How much have ye had?" he muttered, bowing low to speak to her, she was so much tinier than him. 

"This is... um, my third? I drank some when I was helping Colum," Morgan admitted dolefully.

And she wasn't under the table? Perhaps the days of drinking the Rhenish had strengthened the woman's tolerance, but Jamie was slightly impressed that all she had was a pretty flush against her cheeks. 

"What is he singing?" Morgan said, reminding him that she had asked him to come so that he could translate.

Jamie quietly explained the story of a woman who had traveled in time through the stones, how she had fought to get back to the stones, went back to her own time before realizing she had left her love behind in the past. The latter part of the tale detailed how she traveled back to be with her lover. 

Morgan seemed awfully taken with the story, clutching the full glass of Rhenish with watery eyes. Realizing she had clung to it the entire time she offered it to him. "Please? It'd be a waste and I can't stomach it."

Jamie didn't have to be told twice. He took the rest of the Rhenish in a few gulps, the flowery taste on the back of his tongue as he gazed back down at her, thinking of an excuse to bother her after the minstrel, but could think of none. His palm rested on the bench, erring dangerously close to her hip, though she was too involved in the singing to take notice. Maphaps the other suitors did, leering in his direction, foul-tempered in the fact that Jamie was closer to the fair doctor than any of them. 

Still, it wasn't just a game to him, the chance to win a pretty wife. Morgan was a living breathing, person who deserved as much respect as those sitting on the bench in front of and behind him. Perhaps she deserved more because of the uncanny amount of knowledge she had stored up in her lovely head. 

* * *

Her head buzzed with pain in the morning, throbbing as a reminder to not accept more than one topped off of wine from Colum at a time. Realizing in the morning what the sly laird had done, she cursed herself for being so naive. After being directed by Jamie to go to tend the MacKenzie, she set to ailing his pains, and massaged the nape of his spine. He'd had her pour them Rhenish to pass the time, getting her talking more than she had intended.

Colum had entreated her over the marriage situation, plying her further as he understood this was not an easy subject for her. 

"Has any man drew yer attention yet?" he asked, his breath escaping his lungs every so often as she pushed it out of him. 

"No more than any other," she admitted at first, though this was clearly a lie. She didn't wish to trap poor Jamie for being nothing more than a kind soul. He seemed the type that would accept the proposal even if his heart wasn't in it. 

"Och," Colum muttered thoughtfully. "Perhaps ye've considered Angus or Rupert, they're both eligible bachelors."

She couldn't contain her chortle, so sarcastic and dry that Colum actually lifted his head to gaze at her with mild amusement. "No, I'd prefer not the men assigned to watch me like hawks," she replied steadily, lifting her chalice to take another nervous sip of the Rhenish. She was rather coming to like the taste.

"Perhaps someone of similar age," Colum pressed, as if alluding to a specific person.

"I don't really know anyone's age here, do I?" Morgan pointed out thoughtfully, silencing the laird as she worked out a particularly bad knot in his shoulders. "But it seems a whole lot of you ken - I mean, know, mine."

"I may have been a little loose on that information, but ye are a bit older than typical marrying age," Colum admitted, feigning an apologetic tone. "And look at ye, here for jus' a month and ye're takin' on Gaelic."

"Hard not to when that's the only speech I hear half of the time," Morgan sniffed, particular to keep her English as clear as possible this time. "Your wife said I could pass for barely older than Laoghaire, I didn't think you'd betray me, my laird."

"Colum," he groaned, satisfaction erring on the edge of his tone as she worked her magic. "Ye may call me Colum during private sessions such as this. Ye have proven to me Morgan, that ye have no ilk. If ye truly have a cousin in Orkney, I dinnae ken, but ye've helped my people over the past moon. Not once has Dougal given me a report that would have me believe otherwise."

"A month is a short time to know someone, but..." she started delicately, again, another sip from her wine. "You have been hospitable and kind to me. I have no reason to lash out, despite the fact you keep me here. I understand it's for my own protection," there was a pause, a sweet lilt in her voice as she gave the laird a tart smile. "You still told men of my age. That's a foul thing to do to a lady, even for a laird."

"Ye'd have me lie?"

"Or simply omit my age," Morgan suggested.

"Wummin are always touchy about their age," Colum grimaced in spite of the pleasant massage. "Yer still young, lovely, and supple. I dinnae think yer age means much to a lot of them."

Morgan had chewed on that information, wondering if the one that had caught her eye thought the same. He had purposely put himself in harm's way for Laoghaire, but the girl had also been roughly insistent on bringing Morgan's appearance the prior evening for Jamie to challenge. Just the thought of it made her cheeks burn, a strange feeling settling in her chest that she could only deduce one way; lust. 

Another day ahead of her, Morgan forced some tea down, courtesy of Laoghaire. The girl glanced at her with keen interest, insistent on helping her prepare for the day. 

"The bard is here for a second night?" Morgan managed as Laoghaire pulled the dress over her head. Thankfully, the girl wasn't as sadistic as her grandmother. 

"Aye, and ye need ta look more bonnie than usual tonight," Laoghaire insisted sternly, brushing the boar's hair brush through Morgan's fine chestnut waves. 

"You're more zealous than usual, Laoghaire. What is going on?" Morgan observed, craning her neck to gaze at the young, willowy girl. 

Laoghaire's eyes were hard, like blue topaz, but she eased the expression by betraying a smile. "Dinnae worry," the girl assured her. "Yer to marry after the Gathering, right?" she picked up cheerfully. "I wish to be certain ye get the best husband. I dinnae want ye to be sad."

"Laoghaire, you're a sweet girl," Morgan told her, the teenager pausing in her brush strokes. "I'm sorry, did I-"

"Nay," Laoghaire resumed. "Ye remind me of me mum. I lost her when I was young, sorta like ye. Well... yer more like an older sister then, right?" she considered, before shifting the subject abruptly. "When're ye gaunnae teach me healing? Yer not leavin' anytime soon."

Morgan chuckled, talking gently to Laoghaire. Since her close brush with public humiliation, the girl had been rather taken with her, Mrs. Fitz often sending her to help Morgan collect supplies, clean, and organize. She didn't mind. If it kept Laoghaire out of trouble and from her father's wrath, then she preferred having the girl tuck safely beneath her wing. 

A knock at the door drew the attention of the women, Laoghaire hopping to her feet to get it. Dougal appeared a moment later, still gazing down his nose with esteemed displeasure, but he stood there cordially to address her.

"Come on ye, I'm to take ye to town. With the Gathering approachin' ye'll need to stock up yer herbs and there's the procurator's wife who can help ye see to that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! I know characters are beginning to diverge from their canon, which is what I intended. 
> 
> This story is a bit of a guilty pleasure for me, so the outcomes are a bit different than usual, as well as the potential for character growth and development.


	6. Old Friends & Family

Cranesmuir was busy that morning. Women shuffled around, carrying their loads of root vegetables or clothing that needed to be cleaned. Men mucked around in gardens or with horses or on some other business that Morgan could not discern. People were friendly and a few that recognized her from church, gave her a kind wave and smile. They even passed the church, where Father Bain was enjoying the rare bit of sunlight, offering her a greeting in Latin, as she had been a regular attendee for mass now. 

Deeper within the village, Dougal brought her up to the procurator fiscal's home. To her, it seemed strange that such a man would have a wife who collected herbs. Why not an apothecary? Then again, she hadn't noticed such a shop in Cranesmuir before. Too weary from the evening before, Morgan didn't put the pieces together until the door opened and a familiar woman faced her.

"Dinnae take too long. I've business in town," Dougal informed her as Morgan gazed quietly at Gillian. "Whatever the costs are, the laird will pay it," he told her before pushing Morgan in through the door.

The bell jingled behind her, leaving Morgan standing there awkwardly with her large wicker basket cocked in her hand. 

"Come along then," Gillian - no, Geillis - entreated, bringing her out of the front of the shop for the house and upstairs to her own loft. Morgan's ears buzzed, she could hear her own breath quickening, wondering how to treat Geillis. As her best friend? Or as a murderer? Panic only set in further when Geillis locked the loft door behind them. "Oh come now, dinnae look so frightened."

"Gillian," Morgan croaked finally, gripping her basket for dear life. 

"Ye made it!" Geillis squeaked excitedly, keeping her voice low, throwing her arms around Morgan, pulling her into a tight embrace. "When? When did ye get here?"

"A little over a month ago," Morgan responded, skill crawling where Geillis held her. 

"How? Did you lure Will up to the stones and-" she jerked her thumb across her throat, sticking her tongue out and pretended to be dead. 

"No, I traveled through just by touching the stone... I thought back to your theories," she twisted a golden ring around to show where a stone was missing. "I don't think you had to hurt Greg."

"Dinnae matter," Geillis shrugged, nonplussed by the realization.

Morgan's jaw dropped. "What do you mean? He was your husband!" she hissed, careful to speak quietly. 

"I have a new husband now," Geillis said stoutly. "I've been here a few years now. Though, it's a bit odd that we ended up in such different times. Yer the healer for Leoch now?"

"Yes, I'm here to replenish my stock of herbs for the Gathering. I expect there will be a lot of brawling, so I should be ready to treat minor wounds and broken bones," she sighed, but turned the topic back over to business.

"Ye have an in already. I heard ye were related to the Beatons. Clever thinking," Geillis commended, gliding across the room to her impressive stock of jars and herbs hanging to dry. 

"Colum came up with that one, not me."

"Colum did?" Geillis arched a delicate brow in interest. "Seems the MacKenzie is much more fond of you than I had originally assumed. Though, a modern doctor probably knows how to ease his ailing pain. Do you ken what it is?"

"Toulouse-Lautrec Syndrome," Morgan handed over the diagnosis. "But that's besides the point. Gill-  _ Geillis _ , people think you're a witch."

The blonde shrugged, sorting through the herbs, beginning to put them into the basket. "Ye ken, I thought ye would have made an excuse to find me sooner."

"I'm English and have been trying to stay on the good sides of my benefactors. A lot of the MacKenzies don't seem fond of you."

"Nay is Father Bain, which I see you've got wrapped around yer finger. Rather clever. Now to just get yerself a husband and we can begin planning accordingly."

"No, Geillis," Morgan insisted. "Your games will get me killed. Hell, I'm already stuck here because of you."

"Then go home," Geillis told her simply.

"I cannot," Morgan replied through gritted teeth. "The MacKenzie rather likes having a modern doctor."

"Not as if ye have much to return to. Start anew here, ye always loved the Highlands. It's why ye came back for yer Fellowship," Geillis reminded her. "Oh, I can help ye if ye wish. Solidify yer position here. Forge a few letters."

"I've already done well enough to smooth over my situation," Morgan shook her head. "You would do well to start going to church and  _ attempt  _ to get on Father Bain's good side."

"Lil' too late for that, I'm afraid. He's a rather pompous bastard, ain't he?" Geillis giggled, but saw the serious expression reflected on her old friend's face. "Morgan," she sighed, setting down the bundle she had in her hands. "Can't ye see how clever this is? We both ken the future. We could try and save Scotland."

"I don't fancy being killed and I've already had a few close brushes," Morgan sniffed tartly. "This was your dream, not mine... I came looking for you after..." the memories flooded back, the beating, the fear she had felt tumbling through the stones.

"After?" Geillis pressed.

"After you left, Will arrived and saw you departing. We got into an argument, where I told him that you and a bunch of others had seen him in the pub with Jean again. He beat me-"

"I always knew he was a bloody bastard," Geillis snarled, reaching forward to comfort Morgan.

But Morgan took a step away, her river blue eyes widening at her approach. "You killed your husband. Greg was a sweet man. He loved you dearly."

Geillis dropped her hands, a cold, impassive look sliding over her countenance. "I did what had to be done," she replied frigidly. "So what now, because a few people be callin' me a witch, ye cannae associate with me?"

"You know it's more complicated than that. You murdered Greg. Do you really think that I can just forget that?" The women glared at one another before Morgan relented. "I have no plans of doing anything in regards to you, Geillis. Only that we might cross one another's paths due to the need of herbs, so... professionally. Continue with your tirade to save Scotland and leave me in peace."

"There'll be no peace when the Battle of Culloden comes in three years time," Geillis reminded her as she offered the full basket back over. 

"If I'm still here," Morgan replied harshly, spinning on her heel and heading for the door.

"Morgan," Geillis called, having the brunette pause in the doorway. "Ye've grown... But just ken, with a head like yers, ye could change history. I may be clever, but ye've always been the better thinker for the long run. I wouldnae squander yer position."

"Thank you for the advice, good day," Morgan bid, stalking down the stairs, and toward the front door where she stood outside obediently, waiting for Dougal to return. 

The man returned about a half an hour later, his brows shooting up in surprise as she stood there. "Och, what're ye doin' standin' out here? I thought ye'd get along with Mrs. Duncan."

"You thought I'd get along with Mrs. Duncan?" Morgan repeated, venom dripping on each, clearly, punctuated word. "I'm a good, Catholic woman, and you thought I'd get along with her?"

"Aye, seems I was sorely mistaken," Dougal remarked. "Ye dinnae need to wait out here in a tussy."

"Where else would you have had me go? I would have gotten an earful from you had I stopped by the bakery or church," Morgan reminded him.

"Suppose I woulda. I dinnae think I've seen ye so cross before," Dougal smirked, taking point as the lead back to Leoch. "How much rage can that lil' frame o' yers hold?"

"A lot more than you'd believe," Morgan retorted sharply. Her mind was still rushing from what had happened, the sour exchange between her and the woman that she had once considered a dear friend. There was no asking how she was daring, it had gone straight to ideas of changing the future, lack of disdain for being called a witch, and the general fact that Geillis possessed no shame for what she had done. Morgan had sworn not to harm, but to heal, she had dedicated her life to it. How could she be friends with a person that had so easily taken a life and not even out of necessity? 

This was not the Gillian she knew and Morgan was scared that the woman would try and tinker with the life that Morgan was trying to stitch together. 

Leoch's familiar shape loomed ahead, casting a shadow across her face as she trotted along its perimeter toward the receiving yard. With only a few days until the Gathering, she had resigned herself to the lingering eyes and whispered Gaelic when she passed. More folks were appearing, soon catching wind that a Sassenach was in Leoch and that she was to marry. While the residents of the castle had been courteous to her, their warmth growing the more she mingled with them, the newest MacKenzies were doubtful and she could tell by their coarse conversations that they referred to her often in derogatory terms. 

Dougal glared at a throng of men, dispersing them with little more than a jerk of his head. "Ay, lassie. Ye'd do best to keep to one of my men or yer Surgery during the Gathering. When the ale flows, some of the men get grand ideas of what they're allowed to get away with," he warned, following her up the stairs to be certain she got into the castle without being bothered.

"You almost sound as if you'd mind if I went missing," Morgan poked at the war-chief.

Dougal grumbled. "My brother needs yer skills. Disnae change the fact that yer a Sassenach and that I dinnae trust ye fully."

"You'd be a fool to trust a strange woman you barely know," Morgan agreed. "I cannot blame you for wishing to protect your people."

Back down in the Surgery, Morgan unpacked the herbs that Geillis had given her. Part of her couldn't help but feel as if they had been sullied by her touch, but she needed them for the Gathering. Perhaps later in the afternoon she could collect more, just to be completely certain that none would be lacking. The grounds around Leoch typically had herbs growing around the woods and the edges of the moor. 

The afternoon was quiet, the sound of her thoughts much more annoying than she had anticipated. Now that her basket had been emptied, she took it up again and left the Surgery behind. At the top of the stairs, she had expected to find Rupert or Angus, but was astonished that neither were sitting there. Perhaps her conversation with Dougal had been more successful than she had thought. Either way, a short trip to the edge of the castle grounds wouldn't be dangerous.

Deciding to go along the north eastern edge, Morgan passed the stables, considering stopping by to greet Jamie. Sunlight basked her face, a welcome change to the cool, dank cellar. A hum blossomed in the back of her throat to the tune of Saint-Saens' Danse Macabre. Maybe it was because she was finally,  _ truly _ , alone that Morgan swayed to the orchestral piece, prancing forward through the long grass. 

Her good mood continued as she bent down and began harvesting various plants. The trees swooned in the wind, leaning toward her like fellow dancers. Their leaves rustling, reminding her of soft wind chimes. Time ceased to flow, the afternoon slipping between her fingers like sand as she prowled into the forest. Only as the sun began dipping beneath the horizon, casting a warm amber glow on the trees, did Morgan gasp. Picking up her basket, she hiked up her skirt and started back quickly for Castle Leoch. If Dougal found out she had gone without someone-

_ That'll be Rupert and Angus's fault, won't it then? _

Eventually, she broke the treeline, sighing in relief as she could see Leoch in the distance. She fussed with her hair, placing some of her hair behind her ear before drawing toward the stables. 

"Ay, no guards today?" Jamie entreated as she approached the paddock where he was working.

"Strangely enough, no," Morgan admitted. 

"Ye came outta the woods. Ye dinnae go too far, did ye?"

Morgan frowned, displeased that he was drilling her with questions. "I wasn't going to run. I just wanted to make certain I had more than enough supplies for the Gathering."

Jamie paused, turning to tie up the horse he was working, wiping his brow on his tartan before approaching her. He gave her a reproachful look. "Ye shouldnae gone into the woods without a guard. A lot of distant MacKenzies are comin' to these parts and might be huntin'. And none of them ken ye, they may not be as kind with ye as the rest of us."

"I didn't intend on staying that long, but I lost track of time," Morgan retorted, still not backing down. "Would you prefer that I not have the required equipment to treat your kin?" She still longed for modern medicine and instruments. Everything was so rudimentary here and lacked proper sterilization.

"I'd prefer ye in one piece."

"If they're MacKenzies, then they should fear the wrath of their laird if they lay a hand on me. Dougal also told me to be careful. Why is it so difficult for men to control themselves?" her tone was hot, her brows furrowed as she scowled at Jamie. 

"Yer an unmarried lassie, and a bonnie one to boot. Most have little respect for Sassenachs. That combination is dangerous. When a man is in his cup-"

"There is no excuse!" Morgan fumed. "There is no excuse to lay a hand on a woman without being invited."

"Even when she's unruly?"

Morgan pinned him with a glare. "Do you really think beating a woman into submission accomplishes anything other than fear and resentment?" she expelled a hot breath. "I took you for a kinder man, Jamie. You're telling me, that if you had a wife that disobeyed you, you would beat her?"

"Beat her?" Jamie echoed, rolling the words around on his tongue. "Nay, but give her the belt. It's only to keep 'er in line."

Morgan turned away from him, disappointment welling in her stomach. Her original hope had been misplaced. This was a different time, where women were battered into submission to keep from having a strong opinion. Why had she expected that Jamie would be any different? Because he had been kind to her a few times where the others had been crass?

"Morgan!" Jamie puffed after her, having jumped the paddock to catch up with her. "When we first met, who gave ye those bruises?"

Morgan glanced up at him disinterestedly. "Someone who thought I was stepping out of line."

" _ Ye _ ? Little  _ ye _ ?" 

"Yes, I caught my fiance with another woman and so I yelled at him. Told him to go. You all met me not too long after," Morgan recounted. Will hadn't been her fiance, but it made more sense in this context to tell the story in that manner. 

"That's a fair reason to get braw," Jamie replied weakly. 

"Tell me, if I chose you to be my husband, and we were married... If I disobeyed you, how would you feel beating- or taking a belt to me? It's easy to say that you'd do it, but with each strike, you'd do more than injure my flesh. 

"As the Ephesians say:  _ Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her, that he might sanctify her, having cleansed her by the washing of water with the word, so that he might present the church to himself in splendor, without spot or wrinkle or any such thing,  _ _ that she might be holy and without blemish _ _. In the same way husbands should love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. For no one ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it, just as Christ does the church.. _ ." she let the scripture sink in. "Tell me, would Christ blemish the church as men seem to do to their wives?"

Jamie didn't have an answer immediately, but she let him think. "I dinnae ken the bible as well as ye," he admitted dolefully. "But, nay, I dinnae think Christ would do the same. But that's just the way of it, the way people were raised round these parts. Yer a good lassie, yer tellin' me yer father never once threatened his hand?"

Morgan gave a wistful smile at the mention of her father. "No," she replied. "And look how I've turned out. My father nurtured me and helped me grow. But when you grow a flower, you do not pull it from the ground when it doesn't blossom at your command. I only aspire to be as patient and benevolent as he was. Though... sometimes people test me," she looked at him meaningfully.

Jamie pursed his lips, trying not to smile at her jab. " _ Better is the end of a thing than its beginning, and the patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit. _ "

"You're not completely hopeless with the bible then," Morgan smirked.

"I ken that one and  _ 'A hot-tempered man stirs up strife, but he who is slow to anger quiets contention _ ' because me mother yelled it at me often," Jamie grinned.

"Your mother was a wise woman then."

"Wiser than me by half, but she also had a bit o' a temper, so she coulda taken a page outta her own preachin'," he paused, rounding back to the original subject. "Yer ex-fiance had no reason to harm ye. He was a coward o' a man and he did quite a number on ye."

"He did," that topic wasn't very pleasant, swallowing hard as she thought back to what had happened that night. "I thought he was trying to kill me." She then contemplated what he meant, recalling that he might have been able to see the plethora of bruises on her legs and arms, especially when her chemise had rode up on their first encounter. "Bruises, perhaps bruised ribs, split lip, and some head trauma... I was a bit of a mess."

"Aye, ye were a bit indisposed," he smirked, but did not speak on part of her own thoughts. "Not tae bother ye, but considerin' how close the Gatherin' is, hae ye put any thought into what yer going to do after?"

He was alluding to the marriage prospect, looming above her head like Everest, a peak she really didn't want to have to climb. "Thought in which respect? That I have to acknowledge that it's still going to happen?"

"Who ye may choose, if they be havin' ye."

"Why are you volunteering?" she chuckled lightheartedly, the impish smile falling off her face when she saw the serious expression plastered on his countenance. Licking her lips, Morgan considered her words carefully. "Don't do it because you pity me. If you have feelings for someone else, do not put that aside for my sake. I can handle myself, Jamie," Morgan insisted, for once, not biting down on her pride. He was a handsome young man, there was no reason for her not to believe that there was someone else, perhaps back in Lallybroch.

His dark, stormy blue eyes pinned her to her spot. They had come around the back of Leoch, not quite alone save for Hamish and his friends playing games, but they were undisturbed for the moment. "I dinnae pity ye," Jamie assured her. "I admire ye. Yer smart, bonnie, and kind. I wouldnae be a perfect husband, given me record, but if ye'd have me-"

"I have to think about it," Morgan averted her gaze, worried that her resolve would crumble beneath his comely stare. Whether due to her want for companionship or desperation to have someone to protect her from Jonathan Randall, she didn't wish to act on impulse. Especially not when Jamie could have his pick of any woman or girl. 

Jamie stepped back, the overwhelming intoxication of him gone, allowing for her to breathe. She could remember his warmth from last night, how nice it had felt to embrace him, the smell of his shirt - wood, hay, and fire.

Back in the Surgery, Morgan thoughtfully began unloading her haul. Who else was she even close to considering to entreat being her husband? The others were all much older than her, some more crass, or she just didn't know them all too well. Her parents had gotten married after meeting each other in Barcelona, knowing each other for only two weeks before binding themselves in marriage. And their marriage had lasted until her mother passed, but there was no doubt in Morgan that they had loved each other. 

"When you know, you know," her father had told her. 

Morgan reached into her pocket and thumbed the rosaries. "Just give me a sign I'm going to make the right decision," she whispered, glancing up in the looking glass propped against the mantle. Her heart caught in her throat as it reflected a figure behind her. Whirling around, Morgan stared at the newest person in her Surgery. "Oh, you startled me," she told the man.

A tall, dark haired man stood at the foot of the stairs, in a blue and green tartan lanced with black. His onyx hair ran down his shoulders, a Balmoral keeping it down. A thin beard, more akin to a week's worth of neglect was on his handsome face. 

"Is there something I can help you with?" Morgan inquired kindly, putting down the bundle of herbs in her hand.

"Yer the Sassenach... Doctor Avalon?" the man asked, his emerald eyes settling comfortably on her.

"Yes, that would be me," Morgan agreed.

"I'm in need of a healer. I have a cut on me that willnae heal," he explained.

"Come take a seat here and show me where the wound is," Morgan pulled out a stool and patted it gently. Immediately, she turned to her inventory, plucking the best herbs to remedy an infection. She prayed to the Trinity that it wasn't too inflamed at this point.

Sweeping back around, Morgan bent over the man, just as enormous as most of the Scots here, and placed the back of her hand to his brow. Her touch startled him, the man grabbing her wrist reflexively. She pinned him with her blue eyes. "I'm checking for a fever," she explained smoothly. 

He nodded, releasing her wrist. 

The man did not have a fever. She waited while he pulled down his tartan and pulled his shirt overhead. Perhaps the fire was a bit hot behind her, but Morgan kept a plain face as the man's impressive physique, taken yet again by one of her patients. His chest was broad, dark hair curling over his pecs. He was built broader than Jamie, which was a bit of an accomplishment, reminding her more of a discus player she had once treated for a torn rotator cuff.

Keeping her head, she saw the wound that he spoke of on his torso, where a bullet or a sword had glanced him. "What in Heaven's name did you stuff into your wound?" she scowled, bending down to see that the laceration seemed to have something brown on it.

"Dirt and grass," he answered simply. 

Morgan thought she might faint at the thought of all the bacteria gaining direct access to his blood. However, she had heard of soldiers packing dirt into the worst of their wounds to prevent bleeding out. "I'm going to need to remove all the debris from your wound," she warned him. "If it is severe, this will reopen the injury. Because dirt and grass is...  _ dirty _ , I'll need to probe along the inside of the laceration to check for infected or dead tissue..." she turned to the cauldron, pouring water in, which hissed causing steam to billow out of it. 

Her adrenaline pumping, she moved as swiftly as her legs would carry her, rolling out the instruments she would need, including tweezers (acquired from a jeweler) and a sanitized bone needle. Morgan took to a basin, pouring alcohol over her hands before scrubbing them in water, removing all the debris that she could, one again pouring alcohol on her raw pink fingers.

"Lay down on that cot, injury facing out toward me," she ordered the Highlander.

He didn't argue as she made her final preparations, tossing in clean linen to the water and herb concoction so that she could use it to wipe away the dirt. Pulling up a side table with her supplies, Morgan finally sat beside him, blowing a few stray strands of hair from her face. 

"Now, this is going to hurt, I will not lie to you. Take some of this," she offered him a flask she kept for those patients that would need surgery. "And it will be easier for you, if you talk to me. You'll focus more on your pain if you sulk."

The man accepted the flask, draining the contents, flopping his head back down. He was tense, the muscles on his chest straining as Morgan took her hot cloth and laid it over his wound. 

"What's your name?" Morgan asked, trying to get him to talk.

"Alistair Campbell," he answered gruffly, wincing as she picked up the cloth, using her tweezers to begin plucking out the sticky earth.

"Mr. Campbell, what're you doing out here in MacKenzie territory?" Morgan asked him in a chipper manner. The dirt was compact, coming out in chunks, revealing that before the dirt and grass had gone down, Alistair had first placed a rag. Strangely, this made her hopeful that the dirt wasn't applied directly on the flesh. 

"I was in the area and the MacKenzie is a cousin on me mother's side. I heard there was a doctor in Leoch and decided I ought to pay a visit," Alistair answered her, his voice gravelly and deep.

Beneath the cloth the flesh was irritated, the skin surrounding it an angry red. However, there was no puss. Removing the cloth had started the bleeding process over again, which she let some of his blood drip down his side until she was pleased that his wound was not too severe aside from being deep. Taking clean linen, she pressed her hand hard against the laceration. 

"OCH, woman!"

"Fortunately for you, the injury is not infected, it just needs a good cleaning and stitching," Morgan informed him, reaching for the alcohol. "Now, this part is going to really hurt. Curse my name if you'd like, but I'd like to see you out of here in one piece, Mr. Campbell."

"Are ye this rough will all your patients?" Alistair hissed.

"Only those that do things they shouldn't have," Morgan clucked, pouring the alcohol before the man had caught his breath. He writhed on the cot, trying to control his contortions. Men in this era had an astonishing amount of tolerance, but she had grown accustomed to their cursing in spite of it.

"Ye seem like yer enjoying this."

"I do not enjoy seeing people in pain, that is why I've taken this occupation," Morgan corrected, applying pressure to his wound with new linen. "Now, since I do not have an assistant here today, hold this in place while I begin suturing."

"Begin..." he looked like he was about to attempt and pronounce 'suturing' but instead did as he was bid. 

Morgan took up the bone needle and wire thread she had commissioned, threading it through the eye, before she set to the man's tanned skin. He wasn't pleased with her, but allowed her to work in peace. 

"Where did the MacKenzie find such a knowledgeable lady-doctor?" Alistair asked between strained lips, closing his eyes as he didn't wish to watch the procedure.

"On the road, running from Redcoats," Morgan answered.

"Runnin' from yer own?" Alistair chuckled, wincing in pain. "Ye got anymore drink?"

"No, you polished off an entire flask. Give it a few more minutes and I doubt you'll be awake to register I'm sewing you back together," Morgan shook her head, lifting his hand and continuing down the cut. 

"And now yer the healer for the MacKenzies," Alistair continued curiously. "Ye hae family here?"

"Some in Orkney, my uncle worked as a healer here before passing a few months ago," Morgan lied, keeping to the tale of Davie Beaton and her having been related.

"Married then?" 

"Not yet," Morgan lifted his hand completely and finished the line of sutures. Turning away, she began grinding up a poultice to apply to the wound to keep it from getting infected. "God was looking out for you, I'm astonished you weren't ill from packing all the trash into your wound."

"I woulda bled out," Alistair insisted, finally opening his eyes to see the black stitches on his side. "Ay, lookit how neat that is," he marveled. "Yer not married?"

"No," Morgan repeated, shaking her head, beginning to apply the salve. "Well, not for much longer anyways."

"Oh, ye've a man in yer life then? Whoever he is, he's lucky to have such a bonnie, smart lass takin' care o' him," Alistair informed her. 

"Sit up, I've got to bind the wound," Morgan instructed, folding and packing a rectangle of linen to press to his wound. "And... something of the sort."

"I ken mosta the men here in Leoch. Which one is so lucky?" Alistair asked conversationally.

"It's not like that," Morgan huffed, standing slightly, but bent at the waist as she wrapped the bandage around his torso to secure the linen over his sutures. 

The door banged open, Morgan groaning as she glanced at Rupert and Angus trundling down the stairs like a pair of trolls.

"I'm handling a patient, would you mind being a little more considerate?" she asked the pair sharply.

"Alistair!" 

While Morgan tied off the bandage, the men began talking swiftly in Gaelic. Soon, her Surgery was a place for reconnecting rather than healing. Trying not to be ruffled by this, especially since she couldn't understand them, she began cleaning up, putting the dirty linen in a bin that would be emptied at the end of the day. Once she had finished cleaning, her eyes swept back over to the three and she cleared her throat. 

"Now, not that I'm displeased, you all seem to be catching up, but would there not be a better place than my Surgery for you to converse?" Morgan pointed out, not unkindly.

Rupert rolled his eyes at her.

"She's right lads, we're disturbin' her," Angus agreed, glancing back toward Morgan for a look of approval.

She didn't give him one.

"I'll join ye upstairs in a minute. I need ta be thanking the doctor," Alistair said, ushering them up the stairs. He turned back to Morgan, who was washing her hands off again. "Thank ye."

"That injury is going to take a couple of weeks to heal," she informed him. "If you're staying at Leoch for the Gathering, I can see that your bandages are changed. If not, I'll give you the supplies to change it yourself. It's important that you do this once a day and do not get the injury wet while washing. I can also write a set of instructions for you if needed."

"I might stay for a bit longer," Alistair remarked. "Might not be wise to be traveling until the wound is healed a bit more."

Morgan was impressed that the Highlander actually heeded her. She arched a brow at him. "Very good. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon then."

The Campbell left her to her recordings, marking down Alistair in her journal and how she had treated him. Night had fallen by now and soon it would be time to watch the bard again. Morgan was a bit exhausted, but left the Surgery after blowing out the candles and returned to her chambers to dress in a more befitting gown. Laoghaire had told her that the evening prior she was a little too informal.

She expected the nicer dresses in her wardrobe had belonged to Letitia when she was a bit younger and thinner. Even if they were 'out of fashion', Morgan still thought they were very beautiful. Running her fingers along the brocade, she pulled out a sage green gown, the petticoat slightly reflective, the trimmings made of scalloped fabric in the shape of dancing verdant leaves. The bodice's stomacher was slashed with forest green and black, the design in the brocade continuing on the quarter length sleeves, a fine square shaped collar baring her pushed up bosom. Still, her golden necklace remained where it always did. 

Morgan fiddled with the rings on her hand, wondering if maybe they were too ornate as Mrs. Fitz had once warned her. It had become a part of her since her mother's passing. One ring was a solid gold band, which she wore on her left index finger; it was her mother's wedding band. Another was the family's ring, passed down through the women in the Castello line, made of gold and lined with small diamonds, settling with a many faceted sapphire that was nearly black. A dainty half-finger ring rested on her right middle finger, stopping just above her second knuckle. And her personal ring, which only fit her left pinky now, was a hand hewn gold ring which she had been gifted for her Communion. It had been too large when she was a child, but now the elegant knots formed around the empty setting where a gemstone had once sat, but disappeared after coming through the stones.

Her hot breath fogged up the floor length mirror in front of her as she brushed out her hair. It was long. Usually she cut it to just beneath her breasts, but Will had simpered about liking it long, so she had grown it out over the past few years. The chestnut waves wafted down to her waist, curling prettily toward the last couple of inches. Morgan usually had it wrapped up in a messy bun when she worked, but tonight she figured just pinning the worst of her front pieces away would suffice. She let the rest of it roll down her back.

A stern knock at the door drew her attention. Usually Laoghaire or Mrs. Fitz would just enter without warning her. Trailing to the door, she cracked it open, taken aback to see the man she had stitched up earlier. Alistair Campbell stood before her, having cleaned up since their introductions.

"Is your injury ailing you?" Morgan asked quickly, worried that maybe she had missed something.

Alistair cracked a smile at her. "Nay. I jusa figured ye may need an escort to the main hall this evenin'."

"I have been living in Leoch for more than a month. I do not really require an escort," Morgan informed him, but since she was already headed in that direction, decided it wasn't best to alienate the man who had been considerate enough to fetch her. He probably was just thankful that she'd fixed him up.

"Humor me, then," Alistair offered her an arm.

Morgan placed her hand on his arm, following him through the halls and down toward where the bard would be playing. "So you're friends with Angus and Rupert?" she began.

"Aye, they're right ninnies, but good men," Alistair nodded. "They only had nice things to say aboot ye, dinnae worry."

"I wasn't worried," Morgan snickered. "I think Rupert's afraid of me the way he's always glancing over his shoulder. Angus on the other hand..."

"Angus has got an eye for ye," Alistair remarked.

"I'm aware, poor fellow, because I have not an eye for him."

"I dinnae blame ye. As much as a like Angus, he does smell like a drowned dog mosta the time," Alistair joked. "But he disnae hae poor eyesight. The lady-doctor is quite bonnie tonight."

"Thank you," Morgan muttered, her cheeks burning at the compliment. How many other men were looking on? At least Alistair seemed more earnest. He was unlikely to see her again until he returned to Castle Leoch at a later date. They were approaching the entrance, to which she thought she could spot Jamie's auburn hair amongst the crowd. "If you'd pardon me, I have someone here translating for me since I cannot understand Gaelic."

"I dinnae mind translating," Alistair offered.

"I cannot tell you where to sit," Morgan sighed.

* * *

There was no doubt that Jamie had upset Morgan today, but her question was provocative. His own culture was so deeply rooted in giving a good smack when a child or woman was disobedient. It had been why Laoghaire's father had gone to Colum for assistance in shaming the girl. But could he do it without acting in pride or rage? Morgan's quote from the bible really had him thinking about it? What good came in hitting your wife other than distrust and fear? The more Jamie thought about it, the more a sour taste developed in his mouth. She was right, if he was presented with the situation, could he really hit her? Maybe, if brought to enough anger, but as she had pointed out, what good did hitting do?

Laoghaire was a perfect example. It was no secret that her father was rough with her and that had only made the girl more wild. In fact, only Morgan's good influence seemed to be changing the course in which the blonde might have walked. Jamie doubted that Morgan was flogging Laoghaire in secret, behind closed doors. Not for the teenager to be so taken with her. 

Jamie chose the same bench that he had occupied with the women the evening before. Laoghaire appeared shortly after him, but without Morgan. "Where's the doctor?" he asked her.

"I'm not her keeper," Laoghaire sniffed indignantly.

Jamie narrowed his eyes at her, but didn't say another word, turning away disinterestedly. The room was filling up. Periodically, he craned his neck toward the door, wondering if he'd upset Morgan enough that she wouldn't want to come tonight. Disappointment welled in his stomach at the thought. Maybe he had been too forward in suggesting that she choose him for marriage. They barely knew one another, but Jamie had a feeling about her, something instinctual that it all just felt...  _ right _ . 

When he turned back again, he saw Morgan entering the hall in a sage green dress. This was the most prettied up she had been since her arrival, preferring muted tones of knitted dresses or cotton she wouldn't be sad to be dirtied by blood or other substances. Her long hair was completely down, billowing down her back and curling around her slender waist. He might've caught his breath save for the tall shadow behind her. 

Jamie knew Alistair Campbell, next in line to be laird. When he had arrived or  _ why  _ he was there, Jamie could only hazard a guess. What he did know was that he didn't like how close Alistair kept behind Morgan, who seemed a bit frazzled, as she swept over to their bench to sit beside Jamie.

His distant cousin drew him in, a smile broadening on his face. "Ay, Jamie, I havenae seen ye since ye went ta Paris to study," he offered an arm in a friendly greeting.

"Been a while," Jamie nodded, returning the smile, though it didn't feel right on his mouth. He grasped his cousin's arm, gripping tightly to Alistair's forearm, as if to question his intentions silently. "What're ye around Leoch for jus' in time for the Gatherin'?"

The Campbell took a seat on the other side of Morgan, rolling his shoulders, but wincing slightly. "Had a foul run in with some Redcoats. Seems ta me they're less friendly round these parts more than others. I came to Leoch after hearin' ye had a doctor here. Didnae realize the doctor was a lass."

"She's still a great doctor," Laoghaire interrupted impudently.

"Aye, patched me right up," Alistair replied jovially. "The MacKenzie is hidin' a lil' gem. Ye'd think her kin in Clan Beaton might want her back."

"I don't know them all that well," Morgan confessed quickly, fidgeting with a ring on her finger. "But I'm thankful for all the MacKenzie had done."

Jamie was satisfied with her answer, the lilt of the bard taking control of the conversation. Still, he couldn't help but glance over in their direction, throwing a glare at Alistair every so often. What was he playing at? He bent down to mutter the lyrics to Morgan, who was invested in the music, propping her hand on the bench to lean toward him. Barely, just barely, he could make out her gentle breaths, glancing down to the rise and fall of her chest.

He grazed the back of her hand with his palm, wondering if she'd react or if she was too engaged with the show. Her small, upturned nose tilted slightly, lashes fluttering quickly, but she settled back as if nothing had happened. Putting his entire hand on hers, Morgan didn't move or indicate that she had noticed. Jamie set his eyes forward over the heads of the crowd, casual and nonplussed. The question still hung on the air between them, as he should have been letting her make her decision on her own. 

Yet, he was inexplicably pulled toward her, the softness of her hand beneath his palm, part of him hoping that one day he could become the future laird of Broch Tuarach and have the sublime doctor by his side. He also felt Alistair's gaze searing him like a hot iron.

_ What are ye still doin' here if she's patched ye up? _ Jamie wondered irritably.

Morgan moved her hand beneath his. For a second, he thought she was going to take it away, but instead, she flipped her hand, allowing for their palms to meet. Jamie seized the opportunity and laced his fingers with hers, running his thumb along the curve of her petite hand, drawing along the knuckle of her index finger.

She'd been nothing but proper since her arrival, so the gesture warmed Jamie. Claiming quite sternly a few times that she was a good, Catholic woman, he expected that her accepting of his hand meant more.

_ Dinnae read into it, ye'll only be disappointed,  _ Jamie chastised himself, but quavered in his translations. 

Morgan breathed a laugh at him, trying not to be too loud.

The show skipped by faster than Jamie would have preferred, her hand still in his when the bard stood to accept his applause. Reluctantly, Morgan moved her hand to bring them together to commend the performer, Jamie's eyes burning against her cheeks which had a rosy hue to them and a few more freckles than yesterday.

"Laoghaire, would you mind coming to the Surgery with me? I need your help with something," Morgan entreated the young girl, barely chancing a look up at Jamie.

He wanted to laugh at her, turn her chin up and get a good look at how flustered she was, but he sat on the bench while the two women stood up and departed. Eventually, his head slowly turned to his cousin, who was gazing intently toward the plinth where the entertainment had once been. 

"I heard ye've a bit of trouble since returnin'," Alistair remarked without looking at him. "Dinnae think that trouble came in the form of a Sassenach."

"More than just the doctor be givin' me trouble," Jamie admitted. "Redcoats per usual. It's a bit o' a long story."

"I got time, but perhaps it's not best out in the open," Alistair glanced around and Jamie nodded.

Finding a dark corner, many patrons remained to enjoy some drink into the night despite the music being gone. Jamie began recounting the last time they had met, from his return to Lallybroch, the assault of Jenny, to his time in Fort William. Eventually, the story resolved after his second return from France and his sloughing with a group of cattle bandits before running into Dougal.

"Yer uncle already filled me in on how ye found her," Alistair said, halting Jamie as he started on about being torn from his horse and dislocating his shoulder. "And the entire situation surroundin' her... For the most part," he seemed to garner that some information might have been lies, but did not speak openly about it. "So, what're ye gaunnae do aboot yer warrant?"

"Keep me head low fer now," Jamie shrugged.

"If yer thinkin' to marrying her, ye'd do best to not be a wanted man," Alistair reminded him.

Jamie frowned, it was quite obvious that he should not wish to be wanted. "And how do ye suggest I do that? Turn meself in, receive another floggin', maybe get hung upside down by me toes by Randall, and hope that I live? I've got a murder charge over me head."

"I dinnae think Colum will be too pleased by this, but I can take ye to Campbell Castle for a time."

Jamie was taken aback. "What's in it for ye?"

"Me father is sick," Alistair retorted honestly. "I coulda use a good doctor like Miss. Avalon. I've exhausted all other options. I've been traveling the countryside lookin' for others before I was attacked and stumbled inta here." He let out a long sigh and sat up. "Ta be honest, I dinnae expect to see ye here. But if ye've an interest in Miss Avalon, then I think we can work somethin' out. Perhaps a sort of honeymoon courtesy of the Campbells... But speakin' o this Captain Randall-"

Jamie became rigid in his seat at the mention, but not on part of himself.

"-he's a right problem, innit he? Some word has come down south ta us about this fellow, but I dinnae ken how much ta believe. If ye take me up on me offer, I think I canna kill two birds with one stone - yer clemency and the Captain."

Freedom was dangling dangerously in front of him. Alistair was of a similar age to him, just a handful of years senior. "How can ye do that?" Jamie muttered.

"Me father has made some powerful friends. May only be on the cusp of the Highlands, but we're close to Glasgow and a lot of Redcoats. Prissy lil' bunch they are, but they've got their uses. Play the game and ye get some in return. The sweet doctor patched me up and I do owe her a bit for not lettin' me succumb to my wounds... That is, if yer gaunnae marry her," there was a light in his green eyes, hard and interested.

"That's up to her," Jamie grunted.

"Right, well, from what Rupert tol' me, it's happenin' after the Gatherin'. If yer not interested enough, then I wouldnae mind takin' a doctor back to Castle Campbell permanently."

His ears burned at the notion, aware that Colum might have a bit to say in response to that. "And if ye clear me, I doubt the MacKenzie will be pleased to lose his doctor still."

"He dinnae need to ken," Alistair hissed. "He'll let me borrow her to help me father. We're kin afterall and I dinnae think he's fond of me becoming laird just yet. I'm offerin' this to ye because I'm desperate."

Jamie sat back in his seat. He could become Broch Tuarach, rejoin his sister back at Lallybroch without worrying about the Redcoats. But he could read between the lines, what if Morgan couldn't heal Alistair's father? Still, it was more of a chance than he would have anywhere else and at least, for a short while, he wouldn't have to pretend to be a stable boy. 

"I'll not agree to it until the arrangements are final and I discuss this with Morgan," Jamie decided, afraid that if he went forward with this, that Morgan would find out and accuse him of using her for his freedom.

"Very well, but I hope ye make yer announcement soon, because I'm not intendin' on waiting far after the Gatherin' before goin."


	7. The Dark Before the Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse the translations. I've just about used Google Translate for everything.

Morgan fussed in the Surgery, reminiscing the evening before when she'd had her hand in Jamie's. She grew irritated with herself, blushing dolefully like a schoolgirl at the thought. Per her father's philosophy, this was the right thing to do, but Morgan couldn't help but think of what came after. Jamie was a wanted man and they'd be constantly glancing over their shoulders.

_He's the only one you can somewhat trust to treat you right,_ Morgan reminded herself, wondering if she should tell Colum.

Footsteps descended the stairs behind her. Morgan was in no hurry, as there wasn't much going on in the castle aside from preparations. A strange breeze tickled the back of her neck, causing her to cock her head. Breeze? Aside from the door, there wasn't much flow of air in the room. Something pressed up against her, causing Morgan to yelp.

The reek of a man who'd been outside and hadn't showered in some days - maybe weeks - was ripe in her nose. Even if Angus smelled, this wasn't his stench. 

"Dinnae fash, jus' havin' a look at the new healer," the lurid voice entreated, hands roaming her hips and settling on her buttocks. 

"I'll call for my guards, don't-" Morgan threatened, her voice cracking.

"I wonder if they'll come, or if they're drinkin' in the kitchen," there was a short pause. "Dinnae yell, that'll jus' make things more complicated."

"Who are you?" she shoved off the table, trying to jar her attacker, but her effort was in vain. She bucked right into him, slamming into his hips, which he latched on with a vise-like grip. She was too small to cause any real damage. "*Let me-*!" she raised her voice, threatening to scream when a dirty hand clapped over her mouth.

"Shut it, ye bitch. No harm will come ta ya," the man snarled, the scent of ale rolling off of him. 

Morgan closed her eyes tightly, tears leaking out of the edges. Why was this happening? She had done everything right so far. She had kept her head down and been obedient. Did they care so little for her that they'd allow for her assault right in the castle?

"That's a good lass," he crooned, removing a hand to reach toward her bodice. With a rough movement, he ripped the front of the corset, her breasts spilling out. 

Morgan choked on a sob, trying to cover herself as she was turned. The man grasped her wrists, trying to stop her as she began flailing. Panic took over, fight or flight. Morgan shrieked as loud as her lungs would allow, the man cursing, throwing her backward against the table she had once faced. Her head whipped against the edge, her vision fraying as she sucked for air on the ground.

"Doctor Avalon-" she heard a familiar voice, but couldn't see what was going on through her blurred, slowed vision. " _Dè a tha thu a 'dèanamh_!?"

* * *

Morgan woke up in her own bed, reaching up to touch her temple where it lanced with pain. Groaning, she could make out Laoghaire sitting by the edge of her bed, the girl glancing up immediately. "Morgan!" she exclaimed, gripping her hand so tight that her knuckles went white. "Shh, it's alright. Yer safe." The girl smoothed her hair for her, careful not to touch the wound on her head.

"What happened?" Morgan asked, unable to see perfectly still.

"A man attempted to rape ye," Geillis's cool voice answered, the tall woman turning away from the window to join them. "Fortunately for ye, Alistair Campbell was coming to get his bandage changed when he found ye."

"The man is going to be punished severely," Laoghaire said fiercely. "The MacKenzie is makin certain of that."

"Why? To what point?" Morgan groaned, still remembering the rough, unwelcome fingers against her skin.

"To have a go at the Sassenach of course," Geillis retorted. "It's little secret within Leoch that ye favor Jamie MacTavish. In his cups, this foul creature must've believed he could jus take what he wanted from ye. He distracted Angus and Rupert just to make certain ye were alone. I dinnae ken why he wouldnae lock the door."

"It only locks from the outside," Laoghaire informed her.

"Ye only suffered a bruised head, maybe a bit o' a jumbled brain, but most of it is superficial," Geillis admitted.

"I'll have to thank Mr. Campbell," Morgan said.

"Ye were nearly raped and all ye can think about is thankin' a man who jus _happened_ upon ye?" Laoghaire gaped.

"Miss. Avalon seems ta be the type that rarely thinks aboot herself," Geillis remarked slyly. 

The door flung open, the sound of it rattling on its hinges making Morgan gasp in pain. Both Geillis and Laoghaire turned to glare at the new intruder, Jamie, whose red hair flew wildly about him. His chest heaved from effort, eyes dark as a midnight storm in the Atlantic. Geillis tugged at Laoghaire. "Let's step out for a moment."

Gentle with shutting the door, the women left Jamie alone with Morgan as she laid, indisposed, in her bed. "I came as quickly as I could, but I was-"

"I'm fine, you needn't fuss," Morgan placated, closing her eyes and trying to will away the pain.

"Fine?" Jamie repeated incredulously. He took the chair that Laoghaire had been in and craned down to inspect her head. "Yer bleedin' from yer head and nearly raped, but ' _yer fine'_?"

"I didn't actually get raped, did I?" Morgan joked weakly.

"Eun beag," he sighed, brushing his fingers gently along her jaw, eliciting a shiver. "Rupert or Angus shoulda been there. Dougal had told them the men were gaunnae be unruly-" he started, drawing in a sharp breath before continuing. "Sorry, it no' me place."

"And yet you fly in here like a bat out of hell to check on me, despite what social standards might dictate," Morgan reminded him, opening her eyes to gaze up at him. He was breathtaking, some of his curls sticking to his face from the perspiration from running there. He sucked on his teeth at this remark. "It's fine, I don't mind. I'm glad you came."

"Ye must've hit yer head real hard," Jamie snorted, but propped his chin up on his palm, elbow against the mattress. He observed her, his cat-like eyes narrowing in bitterness. "A good Catholic woman woulda sent me right out."

Morgan giggled, her smile easing the tension in his shoulders. "What does, 'eun beag' mean?"

"Little bird," Jamie told her. "Yer just as frail as one."

"If I were frail, I wouldn't be alright, now would I?" Her smile eventually eased and she thought it, right there. Perhaps her jumbled up head made her say it, but she felt it was the right time. "I agree."

"Whit?" Jamie lifted his head, having been playing with a stray tendril of her hair. 

"I'll marry you," Morgan told him.

"Yer not of the right mind to be makin' decisions like that," Jamie grumbled.

"The Gathering happens tomorrow night. I have to make my decision and I'm making it now. I thought about it and I believe you're the best choice for me," Morgan said, feeling increasingly awkward at speaking of an arranged marriage in such a frank way.

"I might be inclined to agree," Jamie began. "But ye need ta rest, eun baeg."

"I won't change my mind," Morgan said as he pushed himself to his feet, reluctant to leave her side. "No one else rushed to my side to check on me... No one that I'm fond of, anyways," she cracked a cheeky grin, but winced at the pain in her head.

"Tomorrow, if yer up to it, we'll discuss it more. There's somethin' I need to talk to ye about in regards to that," Jamie told her. "Get some rest and dinnae strain yerself, eun baeg." Before he parted, he tapped the tip of her nose gently, bringing his hand around to caress her cheek in his palm. Carefully, he brushed her hair away from her face and turned to the door. 

Morgan sighed after he left, gazing up at the ceiling, wondering what he could have to say to her about the arrangement. Maybe he was going to take it all back? The thought made her blood run cold, wondering who else she could even hope to pick if Jamie declined her after all of this. She closed her eyes, keenly aware that sleep would be her ally, but she could only see the gruff man that attacked her. 

She longed for the warm, calloused palm that had just caressed her cheek to return, to chase away the nightmares, and to protect her from all of the bad in the world. She wanted Jamie.

Her head still hurt come morning, but at least she knew it wasn't too severe when she got to checking herself out in the morning. Geillis wasn't a licensed medical professional, so Morgan sat herself in front of the mirror and went through the motions of checking for a concussion. Still uncertain if she'd had on upon her arrival, she knew that concussions were more likely to happen after the first. Still, her eyes looked good when she waved a candle's light into them and she seemed responsive enough.

Removing the bandage Geillis had made her, she saw that she had a small laceration from where her head made contact with the edge of the table. It had scabbed over, the skin around bruising slightly from the impact. Hissing, she picked out the fibres of linen and left the wound out to the air. Jamie wanted to speak to her and she was frightened by the sound of what he had said the evening before.

Morgan was getting dressed when Mrs. Fitz entered. "What're ye doin'?" she crowed.

"Preparing myself," Morgan answered blankly.

"Get yer behind back into bed! Ye should be resting after such a traumatic day!" Mrs. Fitz insisted, forcing the dress off of Morgan and tucking her back in. "Mrs. Duncan prescribed bed rest for at least a day."

_Of course she did_ , Morgan thought tartly, accepting the breakfast that Mrs. Fitz had brought her. "Mrs. Fitz," Morgan entreated as the woman stoked the hearth. "Could you send Jamie for me?"

Mrs. Fitz stood up straight, worrying Morgan for a moment that she might give her a scrupulous or disapproving look. "It's ta talk about marriage?" she deduced, but appeared rather happy when she said it. 

"Erm... yes."

"I'll fetch him for ye. Eat yer breakfast and relax until then," Mrs. Fitz insisted, eying her dubiously and the tray that Morgan had barely touched. Morgan settled back against the bed as she was left alone yet again. She stared at the opposite wall, preparing herself for the worst. Jamie was probably going to tell her that he hadn't thought she'd accept and now he wanted to rescind his offer. Her eyes focused on the fleur de lis design on the paper, eventually adopting a thousand yard stare.

The door opened gently and Mrs. Fitz was guiding Jamie in. Her heart fluttered at the sight of him, his brows pulled together as he drew nearer to her. 

"Dinnae fash, I'll give ye a few minutes to speak in private," Mrs. Fitz winked, signalling to Morgan that she intended to keep the hallway clear until their business was done. The sweet matron was keenly aware that neither Morgan or Jamie would do anything unbecoming alone.

With a click, they were both alone again.

"How're ye feelin'?" Jamie asked kindly.

"Still a bit of a headache, but lucid. I haven't changed my mind," Morgan informed him. 

Jamie jerked his jaw in a rigid manner, pulling up a chair, no doubt to break the news to her. "Then there's a matter I'd like to discuss..." he cleared his throat. "Alistair Campbell is gaunnae get leave ta take ye to Castle Campbell to help treat his sick father. He has invited us to go together, as a honeymoon o' sorts-"

"Alistair knew we were going to get married? When did you tell him?" Morgan interrupted.

"He ken of the situation and suspected we might have interest in on another... He's a very clever and dangerous man."

"He's the reason I wasn't raped."

"Aye, I ken and I'm grateful for that. Dangerous he may be, but he has his honor. He's come to us with an offer. For helpin' save his father, he'll work on gettin' me pardoned with the Crown and perhaps resolve the Highland's issue with Black Jack Randall."

Morgan chewed on this information, understanding why Jamie had wished to discuss this with her. "And what if I cannot heal his father?" Morgan suggested.

"I dinnae ken," Jamie admitted gravely. "We canna only pray God gives you the power to... but I wanted to tell ye this before ye made yer choice. My original offer stands, but I swear ta ye that Alistair dinnae offer this ta me when I asked ye."

"I know, he arrived the next day," Morgan said, impressed that Jamie had been so conscious about how this arrangement might seem. "If I have the chance to win your freedom, we should do it."

Jamie let out a pent up breath. "Yer amazing, ye ken that, eun baeg? So selfless."

"It's not completely selfless," Morgan pointed out. "If we're to be married, you not being an outlaw would be considerably easier for the both of us. Not to mention getting rid of Captain Randall... How on earth is Mr. Campbell going to accomplish that?"

"I dinnae, but as I told ye, he's dangerous and has 'is ways."

"Politics," Morgan realized, the word popping from her mouth delicately and clear. "Where is Castle Campbell?"

"Closer ta Glasgow."

"Closer to the English," Morgan prompted. "He must know the right people. A favor for a favor."

"We dinnae need ta go, only if ye think ye may be able ta save his father," Jamie reached forward, gripping her hand tightly.

"I know nothing about his father like what ails him. We're walking in blind," Morgan reminded him, her heart rushing at the thought that such an offer teetered on her capability to heal a man without any modern medicine. It was a risk. Especially if Alistair was prone to rage. "We have to do it," she declared. If there was a hope, even as small as this, then they had to take it.

Jamie stared at her. She didn't know why, wondering if it was awe or if he was impressed by how robust she was with her decision, but she could only offer him a dazed smile. "I'll tell Colum. Alistair isnae keen on waitin' too long after the Gatherin' for us to join 'im."

"Send Dougal here to confirm with me, if they require it," Morgan told him, resting back against her pillows. 

"If I dinnae see ye before tonight, stay in here. Ye'll be safer behind a locked door and I dinnae think anyone be expectin' ye to be around," Jamie suggested, his tone erring on an order. 

"What about you? What are you going to do for the Gathering?"

"Make meself scarce," Jamie frowned. "I hae MacKenzie blood on me mother's side. It would complicate things for the line of succession if I were to swear fealty ta Colum."

Morgan didn't quite comprehend, but she nodded nonetheless. "Well, I suppose I'm free if you need a place to hide."

Jamie grinned at her. "We're nae married yet. Mrs. Fitz is doin' us a favor, but I cannae sneak in again," he told her, sounding disappointed in himself as the words fell out of his mouth. "Ye ken where ta find me if yer well enough in the mornin'." He bent down over her, pressing his mouth to the top of her head, opposite her injury. The smell of wood, fire, and hay returned, mixed with a bit of hot whiskey. 

Her cheeks flushed at the gesture, lids fluttering as she gazed up at him, both soothed and flustered at the same time.

"Dinnae make those eyes at me," Jamie cursed, muttering something in Gaelic. "Be safe tonight, eun baeg."

* * *

He left her behind in the room, her long hair fanned around her, her visage burned into his mind. Stepping outside the room, he grasped at the cool stone wall, leaning against it to wrap his head about what had happened. Morgan had chosen him. She'd done so last night, but he needed to confirm with her again to make certain she wasn't delirious. Not only that, but she agreed to help him without batting an eye. Perhaps she didn't see much in it, but it meant the world to him. The fact that she would take on the burden of clearing his name, despite not knowing what hopelessness waited in Campbell Castle, Jamie was astonished and taken by her casual confidence.

_My wife. Or soon ta be,_ he thought, standing up straight, putting forth the next challenge in front of him. 

Leaving behind the quarters, he trailed up to Colum's office. Alistair had been clear when saying that he did not wish for the wedding to take long. Given that today was the Gathering, plying his uncles might not be wise, but it needed to be done. Alistair, would no doubt, have asserted that he required Morgan's assistance. There was no other reason for him to continue lingering, especially around a MacKenzie Gathering, where he was bound to run into some folks who weren't fond of the Campbells.

Jamie knocked on the door, wondering if Colum was even there. He twisted the knob, entering the grandiose room, always amazed by the amount of detail and coin that had gone into crafting it. Colum stood in front of the mirror, staring at himself in the new coat that had been fitted to him in typical fashion. He paused, turning to look over at Jamie. 

"How's Doctor Avalon fairing?" Colum asked, aware of almost everything that happened in the castle. Jamie didn't know how he managed it, but it was rather uncanny and disconcerting.

"She's better today, still has her wits aboot her," Jamie reported, glancing at the nearby cage which contained a colorful bird with ornate plumage.

"Shoulda never happened," Colum frowned. "Had Dougal's men been keepin' watch, Doctor Avalon would be jus' fine." 

He spoke the words that Jamie had been thinking all night.

"Well, ye've come to bother me on the day of the Gatherin', when I ken Dougal tol' ye to disappear," Colum started, turning to his desk, hobbling down to splay his palms. "So I can guess it's only one thing then."

"Och, caught me red handed," Jamie jested. "I may o' filched a couple o' bannocks from Mrs. Fitz this mornin'. They say the laird's got eyes in the wall here. No use in lyin' to ye."

Colum wasn't entertained with Jamie's joke. Instead, he turned to the shelf of alcohol he had and opened a decanter with amber liquid in it. "Given yer chipper mood, I suspect I'm correct when sayin' that ye'll be weddin' the bonnie lass."

"She did pick me," Jamie drawled, wondering if Alistair had already put word in with Colum... It was better to just wait until that happened rather than suggest it. "I mus' be turning a new page. So far I've had nothin' but ill luck me entire life."

Colum had poured two crystal highball glasses with a fine whiskey. He offered Jamie a glass and toasted. "To a Mrs. Faser and new luck for the Broch Tuarach."

Jamie accepted the toast, cheering him, and washing down the bitter taste he'd had in his mouth all night, worrying about Morgan, with the whiskey. The familiar, oaky sting was punctuated with notes of cherry. 

"I can arrange fo' the weddin' to happen jus after the Gatherin'. Ye will not believe me when I tell ye that Mrs. Fitz has been fussin' over Morgan like she's her own daughter."

"She gave me a right earful. I think she threatened me if I do so much as harm a hair on 'er head," Jamie smiled into the glass.

"The sooner, the better for Morgan. Then we dinnae need to worry aboot the British comin' for her," Colum said sternly, swirling his whiskey around in the glass. "Hard ta show our thanks when we let her get attacked... In me own castle at that."

Colum was sour with the fact that one of his drunken kin had attacked the defenseless doctor. Jamie was glad to see this as Morgan had done well to earn his uncle's affections. The lass was well spoken and had a spectacular bedside manner. Thus far, she had proven true to her claims of studying for years. No one had seen a healer with such knowledge and knack as Morgan. Not even the Beaton before her could boast such an expansive wealth of knowledge.

"Before it gets too late, I'll make meself scarce. I only wished to tell ye, so the necessary arrangements could be made," Jamie told Colum, draining the rest of his glass before setting it down on the desk with a gentle clink.

"Very well," Colum bid.

Jamie left the room, skirting through the halls, and back around Leoch so he could return to the stables. Out there, he wouldn't be disturbed and could wait out the festivities day dreaming of his wedding and being beside Morgan without having to control his gestures or movements. Only halfway across the field did he scowl, remembering that he'd forgotten to ask Colum about the fate of the man that assaulted her. 

The stable was full of horses, keeping him busy as he mucked out the stalls into the night. From his lounge in the loft of the stables, he could make out the din of the party in Leoch, smiling to himself as he knew that Morgan would find no rest while the castle was awake. She was a good girl, she wouldn't leave her room, especially while she was still healing. 

He drummed his fingers against his chest, staring at the roof, imagining what might happen in just a few days time. 

* * *

Morgan choked out a breath as Mrs. Fitz tightened the corset of her gown to an ungodly measure. Holding onto the bureau, she forced a smile at the kindly woman, and then looked back at Laoghaire with a harrowing expression. The blonde snickered elfishly at her. 

"How do ye feel?" she asked dreamily, staring at Morgan, envisioning herself in her shoes. 

"Light headed," Morgan admitted, though not because it was her wedding day. With the Gathering passed, Leoch had wasted just little more than a day before the distant MacKenzies packed up and were seen on their way. Afterward, Mrs. Fitz sent herself into a tizzy, coordinating the efforts with Letitia. Truthfully, Morgan had believed that it was going to be a simple ceremony given that the Gathering had demanded a good bit of attention and labor.

"Yer to be the most beautiful bride. Young Jamie doesnae ken how lucky he is," Mrs. Fitz chirped, tying off the intricate laces.

_He won't be that lucky if I cannot get this blasted thing off,_ Morgan thought wryly. 

"I think he does ken," Laoghaire sighed wistfully. 

"Only the castle is going to attend, right?" Morgan voiced her worry.

"Aye, after ye get married by Father Bain," Mrs. Fitz confirmed.

_Wonderful, half of the guests are going to be men envying Jamie's position,_ Morgan realized, her worry only tripling from where it had been before. She tried to draw a breath, only able to take half of it. She floundered slightly and Laoghaire gave her grandmother a look.

"It's ta tight!"

"It'll loosen up the more she moves," Mrs. Fitz assured her, giving Morgan a gentle, but jovial pat. "I've ken Jamie since he was a wee lad. He's a good one. He'll treat ye right... Jus' make him go to church more."

"I might be fighting a losing battle there, but in the Lord's name, I'll certainly put forth a valiant effort," Morgan placated. "Where did we get this dress on such short notice?" Only the under skirt and corset were on, but sitting on the plush velvet chair beside the window.

"It belonged to Letitia, but she gave me permission to alter it for ye. Some of it was a bit out o' fashioned," Mrs. Fitz explained.

From what Morgan could see, it was made of thin silver samite, beautiful patterns consuming the entire gown, peeps of wispy ethereal chiffon peeping out from the dagged sleeves. They had yet to put a hoop skirt on her, leading Morgan to believe that she wouldn't have to bear all the typical 18th century trappings. Still, it was difficult to see everything, but she trusted that Mrs. Fitz wouldn't put her in something atrocious. 

Finally, the dress was pulled overhead and was astoundingly light in comparison to what she usually wore. The neckline hazarded down in a V, meeting the corset. The waistline was high, decorated with a matching belt, the skirt falling naturally in a flowing A-line. The collar of the gown was linked in mink fur, a gentle cloak built into the gown, brushing behind in a train, matching the fabric of the gown. They may have claimed it was old fashioned, but Morgan found herself much preferring the recycled wedding dress.

Her hair was pulled away and done up, more much elegantly than her own hands could manage. Pinned in delicate twists and curls, it was all pulled toward the back of her head, poofing slightly, a few bits of her hair curled tightly and allowed to come around her neck and brush her collar. Morgan knew it was the fashion for the 18th century, but she loathed it. 

"Whit?" Laoghaire asked, observing the fixed expression. 

"My hair.."

"How do ye want it? This is just the fashion-" Laoghaire twirled one of the chestnut curls.

"Is my dress of the latest fashion?" Morgan pointed out.

"Well, nay, but-"

"If I show you how to do these braids, do you think you could help me do the rest?" Morgan began working at her hair, pulling out the ornate mess they had piled on top of her. Her hair fell in thick waves, which she split down the middle, and pulled the top of her hair away from her face. Carefully, with a comb, she sectioned the right side of her head, chunk by chunk, weaving it into a twisting braid before rejoining them at the back of her head.

Laoghaire took note and began mimicking Morgan on the other side, creating a hairstyle entirely polar from what had been intended. When they finished, Morgan smiled, much happier to see her hair free and carefully twirled away from her face. The other style had been too stifling, her own choice a throw to the wild, free 60s that she had left behind when traveling through the stones. 

"Put a flower in yer hair and ye'd be a perfect lil' faerie," Laoghaire told her.

"What kind?" Morgan asked.

"An elf, I think," Laoghaire confided. "Can ye braid me hair?"

Morgan had Laoghaire sit on the ground while she hummed, intricately braiding her hair for the wedding. Mrs. Fitz reappeared, astonishing by how both girls looked, but shook her head and replaced it with a smile. Laoghaire's golden locks were well suited for the style, which was more tightly braided than Morgan's. 

She only allowed for them to put a light rouge on her lips to make them a little more red, just a slightly noticeable tint. "I don't need much," she insisted, refusing to wear the ghastly blanc that would have paled her ever fading tan.

"Yer right, yer right," Mrs. Fitz huffed, still giving her a look over. "Oh, yer just a sight for sore eyes," she wiped her eyes and broke a smile. "Since ye arrived, I ken ye were a kind, lovely soul. I'm so happy for ye both... If Jamie steps out o' line, jus' let me ken-"

"I dinnae think Morgan needs help keepin' a man in line. She's got a mouth on her when it matter," Laoghaire smiled, grasping her new friend's hand. "Now, ye've just got to set me up with that handsome Campbell who's just arrived."

"Are you hoping he'll marry you right after us?"

"I wouldnae mind," Laoghaire admitted. "Whisk me away and run south into the sunset!" she placed the back of her hand on her brow, pretending to swoon at the thought.

"Ooh, hush ye. Today is Morgan's day," Mrs. Fitz scolded, but only half heartedly as her warm eyes lingered on her granddaughter. "Go run along and let Letitia ken we'll be ready to go to the church soon."

Laoghaire rolled her eyes, but obeyed her. Morgan turned back to the mirror, her nerves rising as she realized what was about to happen. While Laoghaire had been swooning, she actually felt a bit faint. Between an immense amount of attention that was about to be on her, so would she have to consummate the marriage. Her work had always taken precedence over everything. The only relationship she'd known was the fling with Will and that had only really been kissing. Will had wanted more, but Morgan hadn't felt it was right, using excuses to remain celibate. 

Now, the idea of removing her clothes, standing in front of Jamie naked... taking a bed with him.

"Lass," Mrs. Fitz interrupted her lewd chain of thoughts. "How yer head fairin'?"

"I'm fine," the wound was only a slight yellow bruise now. "Just anxious."

"Try ta remember to enjoy yerself. It's aboot ye."

"That's what I'm worried about. I like to do my work in private without recognition. None of what I do has ever been to be recognized and now..." she wanted to vomit.

"Ooh, wee shy lassie," Mrs. Fitz cooed, placing a hand against her back. "Ye cannae be shy tonight. Ye need this marriage to be true to be safe."

Morgan's face grew as bright as a tomato at Mrs. Fitz's suggestion. Only her tinkling laughter brought the young woman back, a weathered hand guiding her out of the room. She prayed to the Lord to give her strength, to see her through this night, to _not_ pass out or be faint because of how uncomfortable she was being heralded by everyone. 

Laoghaire, Letitia, and Hamish were waiting down below. The bulk of the rest of the attendees had already made their way down to the church. 

"The gown suits ye well," Letitia remarked as they started on their way down to Cranesmuir.

"Thank you for letting me borrow it. Truly, I am so appreciative of everything your family has done for me," Morgan blathered, threatening to become more emotional than she already was. 

"Yer to be family and no bride in me halls is gaunnae look foul. Yer hair is pretty too, I cannae say I've ever seen it done like that," Letitia said, staring between her and then Laoghaire. "Ye hae served me husband well. One night is not ta much payment for what ye've done."

With each step toward the church, Morgan felt weak at the knees. More than anything, she wished that her parents could be alongside her. Even if this were happening in her time, it was doubtful that her father would even be well or cognisant enough to have walked her down the aisle. Now, she had to face it alone. Doubts welled in her, worried that this was all a mistake and that she should have run for Craigh na Dun when she had the chance. 

Now they were at the edge of hallowed ground.

It was a cloudy day, threatening to rain over the crowd that had gathered in front of the church. Father Bain stood by the doors, observing members of his flock that had decided to come to see Morgan be married. Otherwise, the MacKenzies were the bulk of the group. She even noticed Geillis amongst them, wishing that their relationship was not so strained, but she tore her gaze away.

Walking down the path, Jamie approached her in a tartan she had never seen before. The base was a pale grey blue, striped with charcoal, translucent black in some squares where it overlapped. Yellow, red, and black lines penned in the plaid. He was as if out of a dream, his hair catching in the grey light of the day, casting auburn and copper tones. Her gazed down at her, his expression tearing at her heart, causing more color to flush to her face - if that was possible. 

Mrs. Fitz removed the warm wool cloak she had been wearing to reveal the silver gown that she wore. Dougal and Murtagh came up behind Jamie, their kilts and tartans clean, faces brightening at the sight of Morgan. 

"Ye be marrin' a princess today lad," Dougal said as they stood before each other. 

Murtagh agreed. "I dinnae recall a bonnier bride."

Jamie bowed low before her, formal and at the hips. "I am at yer service, my lady," he glanced up, strands of cinnamon falling across his brow as he gave her an expectant look. 

Morgan gave him her hand, the same calloused, familiar hands taking hers, dwarfing then like a bear paw to a cat's. He rose, cherishing the hand in his, only to be interrupted. 

"Are ye done? Father Bain is waitin'," Dougal interrupted.

Her cheeks grew hot again, a growing trend that probably would continue throughout the night. Led by Jamie, he brought her to the front of the church where Father Bain allowed them in. The priest gave them both careful looks, but he lightened after a glance between them. 

Jamie's eyes had barely come off her, much to her chagrin. She wondered if some of her hair had fallen askew or maybe she had something on her face. A pair of singular pews had been assembled at the top of the church, Father Bain taking post between them. Seeing as the both of them were Catholic, the ceremony proceeded in Latin. They prayed on the personal kneelers, Morgan clasping her praying hands together as tight as she could to keep them from shaking.

They stood again to repeat their vows, Father Bain patiently running it down with them, swapping between Latin and English. Morgan had no issue with the Latin, rather it was the English that snuck up on her a bit. 

"The rings," Father Bain requested.

Panic set into the pit of her belly, her eyes seeking out Jamie desperately. Why hadn't she thought of that? She knew what wedding entailed. How on earth had she forgotten a ring for him?

_God why have you forsaken me?_

She was almost in tears before Murtagh appeared with two bands. Father Bain blessed them, turning to Jamie. Lifting her right hand, rather than her left, Jamie slid the ring onto her small finger. She took his and did the same. Her eyes turned back to Bain, wondering if he was going to tell them to kiss, but instead, Dougal stepped up, the light of a blade flashing.

Morgan barely had the time to register what was happening as Jamie pushed up his cuff, allowing his uncle to make a laceration against it. Pushing up Morgan's sleeve, he did the same to her, despite her hesitation. Drawing a white cloth, Dougal tied their bleeding wrists together. It took everything in Morgan to not grimace, thinking about how many blood borne diseases could be passed via this method... Not that it mattered if they were going to share the same bed, but she still thought it nonetheless.

Jamie was close to her, muttering quietly beneath his breath, "Repeat after me.

" _Is tu fuil mo fhuil agus cnàimh mo chnàimh. Bheir mi dhut mo bhodhaig gum faodadh an dithis againn a bhith mar aon. Bheir mi dhut mo spiorad gus an tèid ar beatha a dhèanamh._ "

Once the pair had concluded, a smile cracked on the stern priest's face. "Ye may kiss yer bride."

Jamie smiled, dazzling her long enough that he was able to slide his fingers behind her head, carefully turning her chin up to meet him. The drastic difference in height, more than a foot, meant he head to crane down to meet her, Morgan naturally straining on the tips of her toes as his lips met hers. Her eyes closed, lashes brushing his cheek as she let her mouth part slightly, only realizing as he held her that they'd lingered there for a good time. 

Jamie tucked her back down, releasing her waist as the guests cheered and clapped. As Morgan glanced out amongst them, she picked out Rupert grinning and Angus looking a bit dejected, but still wishing them well in Gaelic nonetheless. 

She was overwhelmed by it all, glancing up at Jamie as he held her hand amongst the cheers. Motioning him down, Morgan stood on her tiptoes to whisper, "Besarte es como ver las estrellas."

Jamie glanced back down at her, clearly not understanding her Spanish. 

"See? It's not too fun is it?"

"Speak to me more in Spanish, it's pretty on yer tongue," Jamie countered, drawing her forward between the crowd. 

She had expected that they'd return to Leoch and join in the festivities in the hall, but she was taken aback to find them being escorted back to the fine chambers that Morgan had been utilizing. Puzzled, she wondered if maybe she was supposed to change, sparing a confused glance back at Rupert who was dogging their heels.

But they passed on the door, further than her room, Murtagh opening the door for them. "Courtesy o' Laird MacKenzie," he said, revealing the manse that they had been afforded. Already, the din of the party downstairs was echoing throughout the halls, Rupert glancing back anxiously, as if he were going to shove the newly weds into the room and lock them in.

Inside, an enormous four poster bed, cornflower blue curtains hanging from it open. This room was twice the size of her own, the hearth had already been prepared, and a table was laden with food and drink consisting of cheeses, grapes, crackers, breads, bottles of wine and whiskey. Behind her, the door clicked shut and Morgan realized what this meant. Their consummation had to be official for their marriage to be true and seeing as she _was_ actually a virgin, white sheets peeked out from underneath the comforter.

Jamie noticed her wringing her hands against the samite she wore. "Ay, eun baeg, dinnae fash," he told her gently, taking her hand and leading her, not to the bed, but to the table with food on it. "Ye are so beautiful," he told her, kneeling in front of her as she sat down, brushing the tendrils of her long hair behind an ear. "I dinnae think I've ever seen the sun come out from behind the clouds so quickly. Falling right on my banrigh sìthiche."

Morgan felt hopelessly paled by Jamie's compliments, trying to pull herself out of her own coyness. "I don't think I've seen this before," her fingers slid over the tartan pinned over his shoulders, forcing herself to look at him, her heart burning in her breast. 

"It's the Fraser tartan," he told her lightly. "I wore me own family's colors fer today."

"It suits you," she told him, relaxing slightly.

"Where'd ye get this dress?"

"It belonged to Letitia. I know it's a bit out of fashion, but-"

"No, it's better than those poofy gowns that would swallow ye right up and yer hair," his fingers ran through her chestnut waves. "I prefer it down, when yer not workin' o' course."

Morgan smiled gingerly, vexed with herself for her inability to cope with what was going on. Jamie was being nothing but kind with her and she was as stiff as a board. "A drink?" she suggested, hoping that maybe a little would chase the edge of her anxiety.

Jamie stared at her for a moment, but his gaze was warm and kind. "Aye, a toast to our union?" he stood, reading for the wine, but Morgan moved for the whiskey instead. "Och, yer goin' for that? Ye must be right nervous. Ye needn't be, I'm not gaunnae hurt ye."

Morgan poured them both glasses, drawing a steady breath, her hands surprisingly stable. "It's not you," she promised Jamie, touching her glass to his. "To us. The Frasers."

She brought the glass to her lips, the whiskey's smell familiar. Rather than delicate sips she was accustomed to, she upended the contents in her mouth, burning down her throat just as it had the afternoon on horseback beneath Cocknammon Rock. Considering, she poured another for the both of them, taking half of this one, Jamie glancing on with worry.

She set the rest of the whiskey down. 

As she had hoped, the whiskey had the intended effect. Morgan glanced back over at him. "What does banrigh sìthchechche mean?" she rolled the latter half of the Gaelic around in her mouth like the whiskey, doubtful she'd pronounced it correctly.

Jamie chuckled at her. "Banrigh sìthiche," he said lightly. "Fairy queen. Yer hair and dress... yer more like yer namesake."

"Worried you married an evil fairy?" she joked, aware that a lot of Celtic mythology was staunch in superstition. 

"I expect the only evil in ye is yer ability to tempt me," Jamie retorted. "But it's like I stepped out o' a dream."

"You flatter me," she grumbled.

Jamie stood up, coming to sit on the bench beside her. "Why're ye so shy? A bonnie lass like yerself, I'd expect ye earned compliments growing up yer entire life."

She couldn't tell him the whole truth, but she found a way to phrase it, taking his hand in her hand, tracing the lines of his fingers and the scar in his palm. "I've been terribly smart all my life. Since I was very young. I took classes with students 10 years my senior. My skill, my practice... They do not teach 15 year olds how to be doctors because they ask. I earned a lot of ridicule for that, mostly because I didn't know how to handle people either when I was that young. 

"I've slighted a lot of people, my peers and fellow students, whether it be unintentional, it doesn't matter. You can imagine that I've always been the child in the room, the genius, a woman, a farce. No, I did not earn many compliments, because people disliked me for the head God gave me.

"You've met me as an adult, but can you imagine going to university with a 15 year old girl, only to discover that this child is more intelligent than you by a mile? Friends were few and far in between," she turned her eyes up to him, dark irises boring into hers. 

"I always ken ye were too smart fer yer own good, but ye've never flaunted it."

"Growing older helps, but I know I'm still terribly inexperienced in many of the world's facets. I may be learned, but that doesn't make me brave or strong," Morgan admitted.

"Ye have no need to be brave or strong," Jamie laced his fingers in hers. "Ye have my name, clan, and family. Ye have me body if ye need it. I dinnae care how smart ye are. The wummin I ken now, she's kind, warm, gentle and sweet... Sometimes a lil' clever, just enough to surprise me here and there."

Morgan cracked a smile finally, squeezing his hand. 

"Ye jus' need to see what I see in ye," he drew her up, directing her over to the mirror opposite the bed. Standing behind her, he placed his hands on her shoulders and made her look in the mirror. The woman gazing back was most certainly Morgan, but it was strange to see herself this way... Almost as if she was seeing herself as a woman for the first time. "Beautiful, strong in yer own way. And yer braver than ye think. Takes a certain kind of person to be able to do what ye do."

Morgan released a heavy breath, recalling that her corset was still giving her issue breathing. Her fingers plied at her abdomen, digging slightly into the lovely fabric. 

Hands roamed down from her shoulders, sliding along her back, then down to her waist, rolling against her hips and down so she could see them in the mirror. Morgan closed her eyes, leaning against Jamie, trying to catch her breath as he explored her curves. There was nothing malicious or unwarranted, she found she enjoyed his gentle touch, feeling a stir between her legs. He was her husband now, it was fine for her to have these feelings for him. 

_I had them before we were married_ , Morgan remembered, thinking of his on dark nights, having been frustrated by their circumstances and her longing.

"Ye alright?" he murmured against her ear, his breath hot, making her shiver.

"Mm," she opened her eyes. "I cannot breathe in this blasted corset!"

Jamie smiled against her cheek. "It has ta come off sooner or later, donnit?"

"I'll need your help. Mrs. Fitz ties me up like she's afraid I'm going to escape the paddock," Morgan entreated.

He chuckled at her metaphor. "Ye dinnae need to ask me twice. Even if ye could breath, I dinnae how much longer I coulda waited."

Morgan pulled the ribbon laces on the back of the gown, Jamie pushing aside the cloak to help her work them. The silver samite slithered to the ground, pooling at her feet, leaving her in the corset, under skirt, and chemise. Pulling her hair around to the front, Jamie fumbled at the lacings, cursing in Gaelic beneath his breath.

"Ye werenae kiddin'," he muttered. "Why did she lace it so tight? Yer already so tiny."

Finally, he figured out the lacing, loosening the strings until he slid it off along with the skirt. Turning her around, he gazed down at her, a smile curving up his wide mouth. "I nearly forgot what ye looked like in a chemise."

Her cheeks were already rosy from the whiskey, but she managed a frown at him. "Well that's not fair," her hands slid up against his chest, thumbing his clan tartan. "You're still fully dressed."

His hand fell on top of hers, guiding her up to the pin that held the tartan. She worked it, removing it carefully, unbuttoning his jacket with delicate fingers. His eyes were on her, watching her work with a surgeon's steady grip, peeling back the jacket to reveal his shirt. A gentle thump where the coat had fallen. She tugged at his kilt, nearly forgetting that the highlanders did not wear anything beneath.

"Ay, lass," he hissed, catching her hand, mischief bright in his hooded eyes. Grabbing his shirt from behind, he pulled it off, revealing his broad chest. "Gettin' ahead o' yerself."

"I am?" Morgan smirked, trying to feign innocence, but her breasts were heaving. While she could fully breathe now, her ears were nearly ringing and her face was as hot as a skillet on a stove. Turning her head, she noticed his shoulder had healed well where he'd been shot, her hand sliding up his bicep to graze it. She'd been this close to him before, even sat up against him in the saddle, but it was different looking at him as her husband rather than a patient. 

Even on that morning, she had admired his physique, now bound by no decency as her hands roamed across the muscles of his chest, making the auburn curls rise. Lost in her own wonder, Jamie tethered her back to reality, drawing her hand and pulling her up to him. His lips sought hers, stubble scratching at her soft face, plying at her mouth.

Morgan melted into him, bringing a hand that had been captured on his chest to his thick auburn hair. They became tangled, her lips parting in a moan as he picked her up. Holding her to his hips, Morgan hooked a leg around him, realizing that she had been pulled completely off the ground to make kissing easier. One hand had been situated beneath her arse, the other beneath her arm and against her back. 

"Eun baeg," he murmured against her, trailing from standing in front of the mirror, to placing her on the bed. The slight moment of reprieve, Morgan gasped, her chemise riding up as she fell against the cool, silken comforter. She propped herself up with one hand, tugging at Jamie, enticing him back.

There were no words, just the look in his eyes had her wanting, lashes fluttering as she tried to catch her breath. 

* * *

**Secret A.N.** I went atypical for Morgan's style for her wedding. After all, it makes more sense that she would borrow a gown from Letitia that's out of fashion. On the other hand, I'm guilty in saying that her wedding hair was absolutely inspired by Daenerys Targaryen's intricately braided hairstyles in the Game of Thrones tv show.

Going forward, she'll be wearing her hair down quite a bit, mostly because Jamie is fond of it.

Here are the links for the referenced hair and gown if you're into that sort of stuff!

Hair: [One](https://hips.hearstapps.com/hbz.h-cdn.co/assets/15/19/hbz-khaleesi-hair-05.jpg) | [Two ](https://www4.pictures.stylebistro.com/mp/st1MVNEJBkqx.jpg)

Gown: [One ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/83/95/ba/8395baaf79fce7182936e6201d194a67.png)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try and get another update out soon! I thought the chapter was long enough and wished to switch back to Jamie's POV. Sorry to leave you on a bit of a cliff hanger! Thank you for reading.


	8. His Little Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay and having to split up the wedding, but here we are.
> 
> Fair warning, this chapter is filled mostly with smut. Enjoy ~

Beneath the furrow of clouds, he had anxiously awaited for his bride to join the procession that was gathering. At her appearance, he thought he'd taken a step into a fairy tale book, cloak removed from her shoulders, a glimmer of light coming through the clouds to illuminate her slender and small figure. Chestnut waves billowed around her, pulled away from her face before falling to her waist. Women didn't wear their hair down enough and Jamie thought she was more perfect than any painting. She was his.

_How did I manage to turn my luck right around?_ he wondered, unable to take his eyes off her blushing face. It was a wonder that Morgan wasn't wed at all at this point, given how comely and well spoken that she was. He would have assumed that men would be fighting to take her hand as she radiated in front of him, her bosom rising and falling gently. 

The murmured Spanish in his ear was sweet, though he only had a slight inkling as to what it meant. Her accent was perfect, indicative of being taught by a native. She had mentioned growing up learning Spanish alongside of English, but even if he couldn't understand, he felt stirred by the lilting tone in her whimsical voice.

She laid in front of him, her hair fanned out on the bed like a halo. The chemise barely obscured the rest of her frame from imagination, riding up past her slender, smooth legs. Her eyes were half lidded, lashes dancing against her cheeks as she gazed up at him. He had felt lust before, even longing for her before this, but having her in his grasp now was another monster entirely.

As shy as she could be, she grabbed him, pulling him back down toward her. Lips snaring his, he cupped her head, erring on the bed as he propped himself over her. He could taste the whiskey on her lips, but she smelled of sage, chamomile, and mint - herbs that she worked with often. Mouth as soft as silk, Jamie's head was swimming, his free hand working at her chemise, tracing up her bare leg which was warm to the touch.

She shivered in his grasp, pausing slightly as he touched her. There was a bit of trepidation in her, but it was to be expected. He knew of her past and the trauma a few days prior; few men had been kind with their touches. 

He gripped the edge of the chemise, trying to lift it without looking. Morgan moved, lifting her back slightly to make it easier as the cotton passed over her head, ringlets falling back down around them as he drank in the full beauty of her. While small, she had a woman's body. Her waist was narrow, but her hips pronounced. Chest heaving slightly from effort, her breasts were supple, complimenting her trim shoulders and delicate physique. 

His breath quickened, fingers roaming against her stomach, cupping beneath a breast, thumbing a small, rouge nipple. She closed her eyes, holding herself up on an elbow, lips quivering at his touch. He pressed his lips to her neck, burning a trail against her collar to her breast, sucking on her nipple, eliciting a gentle moan that roused him further. 

Moving away for a moment, he reached down to remove his kilt, the cool air nipping at the newly exposed skin. Considering her, taking in her form once again, Jamie felt impossibly large next to her. A bear to a robin, he let out a hot breath of air as he shadowed her. 

"Mm?" Morgan's purr drew him back, her arm hooking around his neck to pull him back into the moment. "What's wrong, mi escocés?"

"I dinnae wish to hurt ye," he murmured against her skin, glancing up from her collar to gaze at her pretty face. 

She lifted a hand, running her fingers through his hair, admiring him for a moment. She twisted a curl and released it. "You will not hurt me, I know you won't." The trust in her countenance caught his breath, her deep eyes wrapping him in the warmth of the Mediterranean’s waters. 

"I'm talkin' more aboot not intended ta," his cheeks burned.

Morgan broke a smile, but did not speak, taking his hand and guiding it down her hips and between her legs. She was hot, his hand placed gently over the top of her wetness. His fingers grazed below, Morgan shuddering, but insistently kept his hand where she had put it. Jamie gazed at her curiously, but brushed his fingers watching her eyes close and her breath quicken. Understanding her gesture, Jamie brought his mouth back to her, rubbing his hand between her legs.

Morgan fell against the comforter, short breaths escaping her lips between kisses, her long lashes tickling his cheek. Finally, a moan, which seemed to startle her, escaped her mouth. She glanced at him, clearly appalled by what she had done, but Jamie only laughed against her lips. 

"Dinnae fash, yer always so quiet. Ye need not be quiet here," he told her, pressing harder and faster.

Morgan gasped, her head lolling back, arching slightly. He stared at her body, her fingers digging into the comforter, panting, her breasts bobbing as she whimpered in pleasure again. He slid one finger within her, teasing slightly before, bringing his hand back to where it had been. Watching her move, contort, gasp in delight, her brows pinned together as if she were thinking too hard - he could not tear his eyes away.

" _Jamie_ ," she moaned, moving her hand and grasping for him. The way her lips parted, calling his name, his heart was already hammering against his chest, but hearing his name was like hearing a siren's call.

"I ken ye canna be a little louder than that," he teased, brushing her nose with his free hand, moving some of her long hair from her face, drawing against her full lips. He pressed another kiss to her mouth. 

Her toes curled and Jamie felt himself losing a bit of his own head in the moment. A soft moan grew louder, until she snatched down and gripped his wrist with surprising strength. Her eyes had settled on him, half obscured by her dark lashes. "Stop teasing me."

"Ye sounded like ye liked it, but I wouldnae ken," he smirked.

"You're stalling," she observed.

Which was right, he did not think he'd fit within her.

"You're not going to hurt me and we have to consummate the marriage," Morgan pointed out between labored breaths. 

"Ye put me hand down there," Jamie reminded her, but felt a smile curl up the corners of his lips. He was hard, never having seen such a pretty sight. He thought she had been gorgeous with clothes on, but watching her move with them off had opened his eyes even more.

Her hand moved against his abdomen, trailing down just about his manhood. A shiver shot down his spine, hair standing on end as she turned to look at him again, entreating. 

Jamie moved his hand, coming between her legs to push up against her. Steadying a hand on her waist, he could feel her wetness against him, sliding in against the resistance. Morgan's eyes scrunched shut, a sharp yelp escaping her as he buried himself. He opened his eyes, it felt like absolute heaven, but he could see the tears in her eyes from the pain. 

"Eun baeg-" he started, but she shook her head, grasping him by his hair, forcing him down to her. 

"I'm fine," she promised, straining her voice, quaking like a leaf beneath him. 

He rocked against her gently, the pain fleeing from her face eventually, encouraging him to continue. Enticed by the sensation, the bliss and warmth around his own, Jamie pumped faster, her moans elevating until she was gripping his shoulder, nails digging into his muscle. Her cries pitched in his ears, he angled deeper, her leg brushing his shoulder before his own back arched, euphoria blinding all of his senses. 

Jamie fell against her, Morgan's chest heaving against his as he made an attempt to catch his breath. 

* * *

It had hurt at first, but Jamie had been considerate, giving her worried looks as he slid in. He was a large man, she suspected down below he was well endowed, but it was another getting a glance after he'd made a comment about hurting her. Still, naturally she was able to accommodate him, the pain blinding for the first few moments until he eased against her, pressing hard into her cervix with each stride. 

Stars blossomed behind her eyelids, jarred each movement, unable to contain her gasps and whimpers until she was nearly screaming, clinging to him. 

He fell against her, Morgan trying to stir herself out of her own daze before realizing that he hadn't moved.

"Jamie... _Jamie_! You're crushing me!"

She knew it wasn't intentional as he rolled off of her, blinking open his eyes to gaze at her. She was falling into his eyes, so dark in the dim lighting of the room, almost abysmal save for the flickering candle on the nightstand, warming the blue to a vivid sapphire. He reached, pulling her toward him, cradling her against his warm breast.

Morgan closed her eyes, savoring the comfort his embrace brought, nestling into the crook of his shoulder. They were both awake, as it was barely midday. 

"Was it what you'd thought it be?" she broke the calm silence, glancing up as him as she rested her head on his bicep.

Jamie was playing with a bit of her hair, turning his face down to gaze at her with eyes that made her heart swell. "If I tol' ye what I thought it'd be, ye'd laugh at me," he told her coyly. "Ye seemed ta ken what to do, where to put me hand-"

Morgan blushed, though she shouldn't have, considering that they'd just made love. "I might've been a virgin, but I know my own body," she retorted, slightly embarrassed that she'd done it, but the eyes he'd been making at her, the look on his face each time she'd cried his name and quaked beneath his grasp-

"A good Catholic wummin," Jamie teased, nuzzling his face into her cheek, nibbling on her ear.

Masturbating wasn't exactly approved of, but then again Morgan wasn't actually from the 18th century. She hadn't gotten to 25 as a virgin without a little alone time. "I swear I won't laugh at you, what did you think was supposed to happen?"

"I thought I was ta take ye from behind, like horses do."

Morgan cracked a smile, but didn't laugh. Instead, "That's adorable."

Jamie moaned. "Laughin' woulda been better... Yer tellin' me ye had a better idea?"

"I'm a doctor, Jamie, of course I knew," she reminded him. "Women talk to me about these things... you know, complications they might have from it."

"Ah," he realized. "Did ye like it? I ken I'm not ta experienced."

"I'm not either," she murmured, taking his hand in hers, palm to palm to show the difference in size. "But you were gentle-"

"Murtagh tol' me that women don't like it. At the beginning, ye were hurtin'. I could see it. Although, he and Rupert offered me a bit o' advice. Ye showin me too helped," Jamie admitted, removing his hand to slide it against her stomach and then hip.

"I liked it, Jamie," she assured him. "I don't think many men take the time to care for their wife as you did. At least, not from the accounts I've heard." Sitting up slightly, she bent down and kissed his brow, lingering for a moment to inhale his scent. Despite everything that had happened, despite being forced into a marriage, Morgan couldn't help but think that her mother and father would have been smiling if they were there. 

Fear had lodged itself in her, tethered by the rejection she'd grown used to throughout her life. Returning back to her own reality meant that she'd have to come to tango with it again, the looks of disdain, people disliking her for being so intelligent. Here, as long as she was careful, she could use her ability for good and no one would be the wiser. It wasn't as if they knew her and the odd genius in her from a young age. Morgan made certain not to voice herself, afraid that she'd be deemed a witch due to her treasure trove of knowledge and her brain that didn't seem to want to forget anything that it had learned.

What would be happening at home? She would have broken it off with Will and tried to move away from Inverness. Geillis would have been gone, leaving her no reason to linger there. Not that Gillian really mattered since Morgan had been keen on avoiding her since coming through the stones. 

Craigh na Dun was just a lingering memory. Why would she return aside from being afraid of being killed? Was that fear so strong enough that she'd leave the comfort of her new husband? There was no denying the pull she'd had toward him, the ease in which she could relax around him. He was kind to her, rousing her from the shell she had created around her, nurturing her to believe more in herself. 

"Now that we're married, are ye gaunnae sing ta me?" Jamie murmured.

Morgan was flustered just at the thought, but he had pestered her about her voice before. She didn't have a wedding gift to him, but perhaps a song would be fair enough. "I know a few songs, including the lullaby my mother would sing to me," Morgan said, tracing a circle on his chest through his hair. 

"Is it in Spanish?" Jamie combed his fingers through her hair, pulling out the braids. 

Morgan nodded, drawing a deep breath into her diaphragm. " _Buenas noches,_

 _Pequeñito-_ " the lullaby carried gently on her tongue; Cierra tus ojitos. Just as she'd heard it many times before, the lilt quavered in the back of her throat, familiarity bringing a rise and fall to the tones. She had always enjoyed singing in church, but had never done more than be in the choir. There was too much to focus on and being a singer was a difficult job to get into, which would have been considered wasted due to her brain. Even then, she had always enjoyed standing amongst the choir on sundays to sing to her heart's content. At least there, she could blend in with the crowd and pretend that she was just as normal as the rest of them.

When she finished, she didn't nary a look at Jamie, worried that her tuning had been off or that she'd quavered in her tone seeing she was laying down. 

"And ye chose to be a doctor?" Jamie said finally.

"Stop it," she brushed the compliment off. "I'm not trained."

"I like yer voice better than Leoch's bard," Jamie told her.

"Is that not because we're married? I'd hope you preferred me over the bard," Morgan smiled.

Jamie rolled over to look at her again. "Ye should teach me Spanish," he said, trailing a finger from her temple to her jaw, cupping the side of her face. She leaned into it, savoring the affection while she took a deep breath.

"To what end? Aside from you understanding me?" she inquired.

"Ye have family in Spain? We could visit one day," Jamie offered.

The Castellos were an old family and she had no doubt that they existed in Spain. However, given that none of the family she knew was even a thought or sperm, tracing back to the lineage would be difficult. "Maybe if you master it," she relented. "Or teach me Gaelic."

"Ye haenae learned it already? I thought ye were a genius."

"That doesn't make me omnipotent," she scowled.

"Did they do studies on ye? Try ta find out why ye were so smart?"

"Yes, actually," Morgan answered, wondering how she would phrase these studies in more mundane terms. "They did this with several children. Putting various puzzles and games and problems in front of them. As I got older, I'd visit the university where they would do a yearly checkup. From puzzles, they moved onto more complicated subjects... But understanding what it all means. A genius isn't someone who is just smart, we ask a lot of questions and we don't know all the answers, but our curiosity drives us. We have the capacity to inquire at a high level and then be curious about it until we pursue that pinnacle level of understanding. Eventually, we can communicate it with everyone else."

"So ye asked so many questions they thought ye smart?" Jamie deduced with a fox-like grin.

"I also thought outside of the box. I've once heard is phrased as 'Talent hits a target no one else can hit. Genius hits a target no one else can see. Exceptional thinkers stand on common ground when they launch their arrows into the unknown'."

"I hae been thinking," Jamie started.

"Ooh, you have, mi escocés?" she mused, turning over to lay on her stomach. 

He made a face at her, but resolved to a good natured smile. "What ye talked to me aboot by the paddocks, before I asked ye to marry me," he was referring to their conversation and philosophy on hitting a partner to keep them in line. "Yer right. I dinnae think I coulda lay a hand on ye. I ken yer a afraid o' a man in that respect, given what has happened to ye-" he voice fell away as he gazed at her intently, envisioning how someone could have beaten her so badly. 

"No woman or man or child deserves to be hit to be kept in line," Morgan told him sternly. "Promise me, not because of my past, but because it does nothing but harm, physically and mentally. You will not strike me or any of our future children."

"I promise ye," he murmured, his eyes hot in hers. "It helps yer a good wummin-"

"Ah, ah! Eso no es lo que yo dije!" she chastised. "Say it with me, 'No one deserves to be struck to be kept in line, despite how they may act'."

"Morgan," Jamie groaned. "I already promised ye."

"And I take you at your word, but it's important that I ply the subject upon you. It's not just for me. There are many people who suffer daily, quailing in fear and resentment toward those who strike them for any sort of ill-perceived behavior. It does not make a person stronger. It's beating obedience into them like a dog or a slave," she countered, taking his face between her hands. "When I was beaten, I did not fold, I ran. But... how many more beatings could I have taken before I gave in?"

"Dinnae talk like that," Jamie whispered fiercely. "No one will touch ye now that I'm yer husband. And if I ever meet this Will... well, he jus' better pray I dinnae or I'll hae another 10 pounds sterling added to me warrant."

Morgan giggled, accepting his resignation before kissing him again. She was proposing him with a subject that was difficult to accept in this day and age, but he listened, he didn't call her a fool or willful. The open ear he gave her made her hopeful and Jamie did not strike her as the type that would break his oaths. 

Laying against him, their peace was only interrupted by the growling of his stomach. "Are you hungry?" she asked, propping her head on his chest. 

"I hae na eaten all day," he admitted. "Was too nervous."

"You were nervous?" she repeated incredulously. It was hard to believe, given how handsome he’d looked in his formal wear, kneeling before her to greet her, not a hint of anxiousness written on his well hewn face. 

"Seein' yer beautiful face as the church dinnae do much to help," Jamie replied with an easy smile. "But now I feel much better."

"We should both get a bite to eat, it's been a long morning," she agreed, sitting up, hair falling around her shoulders, obscuring part of her upper body. 

"And it'll be an even longer night," Jamie purred, bringing color to her cheeks. He laughed at her reaction, tapping her nose lightly again. "Unless ye lied to me and ye dinnae enjoy it."

"I did!" she huffed, jumping out of bed to scramble over to the table and sit. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh, Jamie's heat no longer keeping her warm. Picking up the whiskey glass she had left, she took a small sip to warm her belly. Admittedly, she did hurt a bit, but she knew that it was because her hymen had been stretched and torn, the opening having been stretched far to accommodate him. It'd become easier with time.

"Yer nae bleedin' are ye?" Jamie asked, having been looking at the spots on the comforter.

Morgan nibbled on a cracker. "It's only natural. I'm fine."

Getting up from the bed, Jamie stretched upward, displaying his impressive body. Morgan watched on, her eyes lingering on his chest and trailing down below his waist. His legs were strong and athletic, forming nicely shaped buttocks. 

Jamie grinned at her staring, causing her to look away. "Ye sizin' me up, doctor?"

"I was just thinking that you have a striking build," she admitted honestly, trying not to be all flustered when describing the body of the man she was now married to. It was aggravating blushing all the time, but Morgan couldn't control the nerves she had, nor the reactions that came so naturally. She could be vexed at herself all she wanted for being as coy as a schoolgirl, but forcing herself to acknowledge that her inner thoughts might help to chase away the worst of her dolefulness.

"Och, thank ye, sìthiche beag." She knew he was calling her 'little fairy' by the collection of Gaelic that she had learned. He took a seat across from her, beginning to take his pick of the food. Filling up silver chalices with Rhenish, Morgan switched to the wine over the whiskey. 

"You know, it strikes me that despite what we feel, we don't know much about each other," Morgan remarked as she sat there, naked but for her long hair that covered her breasts slightly.

"Aye, that's the way of it. What would ye like to ken?"

"I know about your sister, Jenny, and what happened to you just before we met, but what about the rest of your family? Or maybe what life was like before you were a wanted man?"

Jamie began to divulge the details of his life, panning over to his family and his relation to Colum. Leaning against the table, Morgan enjoyed hearing his stories. Just as her own grandmother, he had a knack for storytelling, which drew her in, though she did ask him many questions. He swapped over to her, despite the fact that she had always shared with him before. With only a few changes, she explained how her parents had met in Barcelona, neglecting to include that their marriage was interrupted soon after when her father had to go to war.

Alone at home with baby Morgan, her mother had to take care of her during the war, fleeing back to Spain for a time. She phrased it as her father had work, so Catriona had returned to Spain for help from her family, being they were quite a large, expanded group. But Spain had still been recovering from the Spanish Civil War, WWII barely giving the country time to breathe.

"No wonder yer Spanish is so good. I jus' thought yer mother spoke it to ya," Jamie remarked.

"No, I lived in Spain when I was very little and it was practically all I spoke before returning to England. Not that it took me too long to get the hang of English. We would always visit my family around Christmas time, so I would be speaking Spanish with them again as they're not very good with English. My poor father barely had any idea what was going on, clinging to what French he knew, but it's not the same... Especially since my family speaks incredibly fast."

"I'd like ta meet them," Jamie told her, his eyes transfixed on her, making her a bit self conscious.

"I haven't seen them in a long time," she said gently, picking up a grape. "Not since my mother's funeral."

"They sound like good, loving people," Jamie reached across and grasped her hand, running his thumb along her wedding band.

"Where did you get this?" she asked me, gazing at the ring with interest. It was unlike any other ring she'd seen before.

"Rupert and Angus helped me," he admitted, giving it a thoughtful look. "I had it fashioned from a key."

"A key? A key to what?" Morgan wondered out loud. "Is it to Lallybroch?"

Jamie poorly hid his expression, confirming her suspicion. "Yer too clever."

"I don't think there's too much you can hide from me."

"Ye sure yer not a witch and a mind reader?"

"I used my memory and powers of deduction. If this makes me a witch, then many of the world's finest philosophers and scholars are also witches," Morgan quipped, turning her hand over to gaze at the ring. "Why would you do this to the key? Not that I'm complaining, but I'm truly just curious."

"So ye ken where yer home is. Even if we never get ta go there," Jamie replied.

"If we can clear your name, we will," she reminded him gently. "Do you know when we have to leave? To head south?"

Jamie opened his mouth to answer, but there was a loud banging at the door. He snapped his head in the direction, curling his fingers around the edge of the table. "Go get in bed, I donnae be wantin' anyone to see ye," he told her.

Morgan didn't have to be told twice, springing up from her seat like a deer and running to the bed, tucking herself beneath the covers, drawing it up to her chin. The banging did not cease, Jamie lazily grabbing his kilt and putting it on to be dressed enough to receive someone. Unlocking the door, he glared out, Rupert swaggering past the cracked threshold to get a good look in. 

Jamie forced him back out, slamming the door behind him, as they began to argue just outside in Gaelic. Morgan remained where she was, looking at her wrist where she had been cut to bind her blood with Jamie's. It all felt so long ago, despite just being earlier in the day. What would it be like in Castle Campbell? Would she be working all the time trying to solve the mystery surrounding the illness of their laird or would she have time to spend with Jamie, just like this?

The door banged shut again and Jamie locked it, brows furrowed, and looking irritated. 

"Is everything alright?" she asked him.

"Fine, Rupert jus' wanted ta make sure the marriage was consummated. I'm sorry he managed to get in here for a moment."

"All he saw was me peeking out from underneath the blanket," Morgan informed him with a smile, pulling it down to expose her upper body.

Jamie's eyes burned on her as she removed the comforter entirely, stepping out of the bed. She had barely passed him to return to the table when he snared her, turning her hip so that she faced him. "Ay, ye cannae walk by me like that and not expect me ta do somethin'," he warned her, hand encircling her waist, pulling her tight against him.

Morgan could feel eros blossom between her legs again, pressed hard to him, she could already feel him rising beneath the kilt. "You were able to talk to me for more than an hour without being bothered," she muttered, cheeks burning.

"I was plenty bothered," Jamie informed her. "But ye wished to get to ken me more." His hand slid beneath the curve of her butt again, drawing her leg up around him. "But now-" he bent down, noses brushing together. "I cannae contain meself."

She was lifted off the ground, encircling her arms around his neck. He pressed her to the nearest object, up against the wall, high enough that her head was level with his. Against her bare back, the wallpaper was cool and icy, making her gasp, hairs on her arms rising. Jamie shuffled, undoing his kilt once again, before sliding her down, barely prefacing the exchange before he fucked her. 

Morgan's legs wrapped around him as she was pressed to the wall, one of his hands tangled with hers, fingers interlaced, as he held himself steady. His other hand was tight on her back, using the wall as an anchor as he slid in and out. Gravity worked with him, Morgan straddling his hips, yelping out with each pump as she came down hard on him. The pain lanced through her, mixed with a strange pleasure that made her sweat and almost wish to cry. 

They moved, Jamie switching the wall for the bed again, coming out of her to toss her down. Morgan was panting, the rough nature of his strokes having ailed her, her legs crossing slightly as she tried to see through the blissful ache.

"Jamie," her muscles were quivering, barely able to sit up after what he'd done to her. 

"Mm," Jamie placed his hands between her thighs, giving her a moment of reprieve from his manhood, trying again at what she had shown him earlier. He bent down and brought his mouth to hers, hot whiskey on her tongue as she parted her lips to let him in. Her moans were stifled as he worked, back arching as he moved quicker, playing off of her reactions. 

Threatening to be overwhelmed, Morgan forcefully pushed him over with the flat of her palm, unbalancing him. His hand snagged away from between her legs, she managed to straddle him, her mouth damp and cheeks wet from a few tears that had managed to leak out. Jamie cupped her breast. 

"I think I like this view," he remarked, teasing her clit again, making her jump. 

"I'm close," she warned him breathlessly, sliding down on top of his manhood, legs quivering as she made a poor attempt to control a steady pace in which she rode him. Jamie, noticing her distress and weakness, pumped his hips and began to bounce her slender body against his.

Morgan closed her eyes, each blow punctuated by a growing moan, Jamie touching her clit once again. Her muscles spasmed, voice elevating to a scream as Jamie quickened, his brows furrowed as he began to lose his own senses to the overwhelming sensation. 

He paused for a moment, eyes widening.

“No!” Morgan rocked against him, she continued past her point, waiting until he groaned loudly, fingers sliding away from her breast. Morgan fell against him, slick with perspiration as her body shook slightly. 

Unable to think, unable to do more than just lay there, Morgan took a few moments before opening her eyes. There he was, just above her, breathing just as hard as she was, wrapping an arm around her. She watched him for a few quiet moments, observing the stubble on his face, the curve of his straight nose, his handsome jawline. Finally, when he opened his lashes, he took notice of her staring. 

"Did ye-?" he left the question hanging on the air.

Morgan nodded. It had been better than she could have even fathomed. Accounts were one thing and it was incredibly awkward to have someone describe it, even as words on a page. 

"I thought I had hurt ye, like earlier," he told her, caressing her side and hips, rolling his fingers to the small of her back, rubbing the spot where she ached. "I dinnae ken that wummin could do that."

"It's not as easy as it is for men, but I've heard of good lovers being able to accomplish it," Morgan told him, palm against his chest. "I was close earlier too."

"I mus' be better than I thought," he remarked with a grin. "Yer just so small, I'm afraid o' breakin' ye."

"I would tell you if you were hurting me."

"Aye, but can ye? Yer just yellin' me name lookin' all flustered, breathless, and lovely. The faces ye make-"

"It does hurt a little," she admitted, trying not to imagine how her face might look while they were making love. "But it's a good hurt..." her curiosity got the better of her. "I'm not making terrible faces, am I?" she worried.

"Nay, nay," he soothed. "The faces ye make, I cannae stand them, I feel... mar gum biodh mo chridhe a ’spreadhadh."

She cocked her head.

"As if my heart may burst," he murmured against her hair.

"I'll have to be more careful then. I would hate for you to have a heart attack so young," Morgan jested. 

"Dinnae ye dare," he told her. "If I were to die now, I'd die a happy man."

Morgan nuzzled into him, drinking in his aroma, closing her eyes. She didn't think she could control herself if she tried. 

* * *

His dreams were filled with her, unable to escape her vibrant gaze, as he thought more of holding and loving her. Jamie had felt attached to her before their marriage, but after their union he did not know if he'd like to be separated from her for even a moment. Stirring, he opened his eyes, noticing that his little bird was not tucked under his arm. She had gotten up, wrapped herself in his kilt, and sat in front of the fire, thinking. 

He rose quietly, not wishing to disturb her. The colors of Clan Fraser suited her complexion and hair, bringing out how brilliant a blue her eyes were. Retrieving his sporran, he pulled out a necklace of pearls. He approached Morgan from behind, she was so distracted, thumbing her rosary between her fingers, that she hadn't noticed him until his shadow fell over her. 

Her hair was a bit of a mess from their tumbling, but to him, she was still perfect. Drawing the necklace around her throat, he secured the clasp and kissed the crown of her head. She tilted her head up, cocking a questioning gaze at him as her hands lifted the necklace for inspection. 

"They're Scotch pearls and belonged to me mother. It's one of the few things I hae left of her, so they're very precious to me," Jamie explained, the firelight casting warmth on her face. "Yer precious to me as well."

The pearls slid from her hands and she reached up, wrapping an arm around his neck. Before she turned completely, Jamie noticed her eyes were wet. Though she didn't cry, Jamie understood what the words had meant to her and he had thoroughly meant them. A life of rejection for something she couldn't control, a gift that was lauded in men, being stared at like she was an animal, he could only imagine how lonely such a life had been. She would never feel that way with him, not as long as he breathed.

Heat wafted off the fire, her gentle touch against his once wounded shoulder bringing him back from his daydreams. She cared so much, putting her heart into her work and healing people.

Jamie kissed her passionately, drawn by the thought of her character. Falling against the ground with her as he loomed over her. She opened her eyes, the tartan slipping from her shoulder to reveal a collar that was blemished with pink marks from his biting kisses. His. She was all his. 

"Does it ever stop?" he asked her quietly.

"What?" she breathed, staring up at him with wide, gorgeous eyes. 

"I cannae get enough of ye," he admitted, vexation creeping into his tone. The crass comments of the other men now had purchase, but he didn't think he could ever joke around lewdly about his own wife. "I dinnae want this feeling ta fade."

"Me either," Morgan responded, reaching up and brushing his hair back out of his face. Her countenance softened, so sweet and caring, lips raw from his forceful kissing.

He had never imagined it would be that great. Being married was a duty and many men complained of it. Why? His mouth came down on hers again, hungry for the taste of her, the sweet wine on her lips and the herbal smell of her hair and hands lingering. He was gentle this time, parting her legs and taking her another time, rocking at a slow tempo. It felt marvelous, but without the hot, raw need that had pressed them earlier. It didn't need to be. 

His hand found her free one, pressing it to the cool stone floor as he laced his fingers with hers. Morgan's lids flickered, her lips parted as she breathed, offering gentle moans. 

Jamie came to a climax, curling around her, wrapping both arms to cradle her small form against him. This was right. 


	9. The Space Between

Light barely penetrated the curtains of their bridal suite, dampened more by the cornflower blue drapes on the posts. Waking up beside Jamie, she realized she was more than a little bit sore from their love making the day prior. Stretching, from the tips of her toes to fingers, Morgan turned her head up to gaze at her husband, who was already awake. 

"Why didn't you wake me? What time is it?" Morgan asked him, rubbing an eye, propping herself up so that she could peep between the drapes toward the window. 

Jamie dragged her back down, away from the light of day, and into his arms once again. Tapping her nose playfully, he smiled at her. "Wake ye? Ye were so bonnie, I couldna do that," he informed her as if it were obvious.

"You didn't let me sleep away half the day, did you?" she questioned worriedly.

"Nay, ye still woke up early," Jamie admitted, chasing her doubts away with a mischievous smile. 

"Good, because if we're going to be leaving for Castle Campbell, I'll need to pack away supplies for the road. You did never tell me when we would be going," Morgan said, rubbing her hand along his chest, trailing up to his shoulder, noticing a knot where her fingers dug in.

"I still hae to discuss that with Colum," Jamie admitted.

"Sit up," she ordered.

He cocked a brow at her, but did as he was bid. Morgan, facing his back, began to work at the tense muscle. "Och, that's tender ye ken?"

"I know, just relax," she replied, thinking about what he said as she massaged his shoulder. "Do you think Alistair brought it up to him?"

"I dinnae, hopefully soon... I'd rather not hae to tempt me uncle's fury," Jamie said, moaning as she dug into the knot. " _ Eun baeg _ ."

"You're all tied up from working the paddocks," Morgan grunted, putting effort into working his muscles. "Tell me next time and I'll give you a massage before you're so stiff."

Jamie turned, catching her as she knelt behind him, pressing his lips to her navel. "Ye could massage more than me shoulders," he suggested.

Morgan smiled tentatively, but the ache between her thighs told her it might not be too pleasant. "You wore me out yesterday, I'm going to need a day to recover. Perhaps this evening?"

Jamie seemed a bit disappointed, but relented after planting another kiss on her abdomen. "Mm, I could agree ta that," he released her so that she could scamper up from the bed, a jolt of pain lining the path up her leg as she stepped on the cool stones of the floor. "Ye alright?"

Morgan forced a smile. "I'm fine," she rasped, licking her lips.

"Ye ken, the more ye say yer fine, I'm beginning to doubt it," Jamie remarked, brows pulling together. "I did a number on ye, dinnae I?"

Bracing her legs she nodded dolefully. "At least no one can claim our marriage wasn't official."

"Rupert said if ye coulda walk, I dinnae do a good job."

"I can walk. Doing a good job is not measured by how much you break your wife on the first night," Morgan retorted evenly, picking up her discarded chemise. Slipping it over her head, she turned to look at him, holding herself up as she leaned against the post of the bed. "I wouldn't trade yesterday for anything."

Jamie sat up, muscles contorting as he grabbed the edge of her slip and tugged her closer. "Yer gaunnae abandon me now?"

"We really should show some face," Morgan insisted. "And I'll not be going anywhere but around the castle," she reminded him, pressing her lips to the top of his red curls. "We both need to wash as well. We smell like sex."

"I dinnae mind," he chuckled.

"Others might-" 

"Most o' Leoch smells like the stables. I dinnae think they'll notice," Jamie pointed out.

Morgan cracked a smile at him, but glanced in the basket that had been left by Mrs. Fitz, who no doubt had prepared the room for them. Folded neatly was a change of clothes for the both of them, which Morgan graciously adorned, slightly achy as she reached back to tighten the strings of her corset. 

Jamie came up behind her, finessing the strings away. "Maybe we should get ye some dresses like yer weddin' gown," he speculated, careful not to pull too tight. 

Morgan was running the brush through her hair, untangling the bits that had gotten fussed up by their romping. "These are fine, I don't want to stick out compared to everyone else," she remarked absentmindedly. 

"Ye already do," he spun her around, one of her hands flying out to his chest to stop herself from stumbling. "Be it in these poofy, ridiculous dresses or a more flatterin' one, ye are much too bonnie to go unnoticed." 

Morgan set her jaw, her blushing face rousing a smile from him. "I'll wear whatever is popular."

"These dresses are meant fer wummin tryin' ta hide their true build," Jamie pointed out as she slipped her hoops on. 

"They're  _ actually  _ meant to display the beauty of the dress and the embroidery. They're more dramatic and pronounced amongst noble or wealthy families. The fashion is simply emulated by other facets of society," Morgan corrected, though it didn't help her case much.

"If it's fer the fancy people, then why does it matter if ye keep to their fashion or not?" 

Morgan did not have a counter for that, opening her mouth to speak, but snapping it shut. They were surrounded by exquisite finery, wallpaper, and furniture. Perhaps he didn't see them as  _ fancy _ , but that also showed the privilege that Jamie had grown up with. Or maybe he was just comparing his own life to France, which was exorbitant by twice. Either way, she was still under the scrutiny of a laird and preferred not to dress in a manner that might get her called a pagan.

"If ye dinnae mind, then I'll not pester ye. I like ye better with nothin' on anyways," Jamie poked, grinning at her expense. 

Finishing getting ready, Morgan glanced at him as he folded the Fraser tartan to put it away. Her heartstrings tugged at that, wishing that he could have worn it over the MacKenzie plaid, but didn't speak on it. If God was with her, then it would be reality soon. Morgan tied her hair up in a plait before standing on the tips of her toes to peck Jamie on the cheek. Her mother always did it to her father before she went anywhere and she did not see why not to do the same with her own husband. 

"Ay," he grasped her hips. "A proper one."

Morgan giggled in his embrace as he bent down and kissed her on the lips. "Best of luck today. I pray Colum doesn't give you an earful," she mused. 

"Keep prayin'," Jamie groaned, but let her slip from his grasp, reluctantly. "I dinnae ken where we'll be stayin' tonight."

"We can always use the chambers I've been allowed. Since it's no longer improper you visit me there," she pointed out lightly, placing a palm to the door handle, not quite wishing to leave his side either. Still, there were things to be done and they could further celebrate their union once they arrived at Castle Campbell.

Morgan stepped out into the hallways, drawing in a deep breath, cocking her head and setting pace for the Surgery. Noon had yet to hit, allowing her slip through the corridors. The celebration that had occurred in their honor had done a number on the residents, most still asleep and shirking in their duties. However, a few servants were milling about, offering Morgan a congratulations on her marriage and becoming Mrs. Fraser - or MacTavish, it depended on who she crossed.

Mrs. Fraser; the title sounded so strange and yet it reminded her of Jamie. Most things around her reminded her of him. Down in her Surgery she wished she had him sitting around, making jokes as she worked. Funny how their marriage had created such a strong bond. Perhaps it was due to their entire day spent together that Morgan was reluctant to be on her own again, casually daydreaming of her husband. 

The door clicked shut and Morgan reached forward reflexively for her scalpel (or what she considered her scalpel, which was a very sharp, small knife). Turning, she held it at her side before realizing it was just Laoghaire. Sighing, color rushed back into her white knuckles, sliding it back onto the table. 

" _ So _ ," the girl plied, not having noticed that Morgan had picked up the knife. "How was it?"

Cracking a smile, her cheeks burned just at the thought of the ravenous love making the both of them had taken part in. Truthfully, she never imagined that she, herself, could be so devious. "Amazing," she told Laoghaire honestly. 

Laoghaire dumped herself on the cot, golden hair swaying as she let out a long, wistful breath. "He's so dreamy. I canna see he couldnae get enough of ye," she eyed the marks on Morgan's neck that she had forgotten to cover.

Immediately, she tugged up the scarf she had on, but it was too late, Laoghaire had already taken note. "I suppose," she managed through a strained voice, again thinking back to it.

"Ye wouldnae believe how bawdy the feast was. Dougal says ye have Jamie wrapped right round yer finger and that he ought not to be so attached to ye," Laoghaire filled in. "Says a man shouldnae be so keen to be with his wife."

"Was Jamie supposed to go down to the feast?" Morgan asked, a bit puzzled with the wedding reception.

"Nay, not if he dinnae want to," Laoghaire suddenly became cheeky, "And I canna see he why he dinnae want to... What're ye up to? I dinnae think ye'd come outta yer room."

"Well," Morgan began, not quite as shy about admitting her own ailing. "I'm quite a bit sore. Plus, I figured there might be people who got a little 'braw' last night." The latter half was a lie. Given that she didn't know if Alistair had spoken to Colum, telling Laoghaire that they'd be leaving soon might not be a good idea. She was beginning to trust the girl, but she was still young and might unintentionally let word slip.

"What was it like?" Laoghaire asked her earnestly.

"Uh," Morgan faltered, clearing her throat as she tried to figure out how to explain it. 

"I'm jus' teasin," Laoghaire relented. "But I canna imagine that Jamie was a nice sight."

"Mm," Morgan hummed in agreement, amused by the girl's inquisitiveness, but aside from admitting her enjoyment, she doubted she could tell anyone what had happened. Given that she was supposed to be a 'good Catholic woman', the amount of lust she had been experiencing the duration of her wedding day was embarrassing upon looking back. Still, was it bad that she was thinking of what the evening might hold?

The door banged up, Morgan glaring at the stairwell. Angus and Rupert trolloped down like little children on Christmas morning. Given her status as Mrs. Fraser, she had hoped there would be little need of babysitters, especially since the extended MacKenzie family had since departed after the Gathering. 

"Congratulations, Mrs. Fraser," Rupert declared excitedly, giving her a mocking bow.

Morgan gave them both a look. Even if Angus was a bit depressed that he hadn't been the one in the room with her last night, the two older men seemed pleased that Jamie had done her well.

"I'm surprised yer walkin'," Angus remarked. "Ye ken lass, if he's nae doin' his duties as a husband..."

"I assure you, Jamie did a better job than either of you would have managed," Morgan insisted sternly, drawing rather impressed stares from the both of them with her brashness. No one would tell her otherwise.  _ Besotted already? _ she thought to herself, but the words he'd shared with her, the kindness in his eyes... For once, Morgan didn't feel so lonely and she knew, deep down, that feeling would be gone forever.

Now to set her mind to the next task; Jamie's freedom. Dangling like a carrot before a horse, she knew that resolving this situation would lend for ease in their life. The Battle of Culloden was a distant thought, but it loomed like a mountain miles away. Her journey had not yet taken her there, but a small bit of her hoped that Geillis might be able to free Scotland on her own. It would prevent Morgan from having to steer Jamie away while he kin were murdered in the moor, their blood providing sustenance for the grass and heather. 

"Och, ye hear her? Gettin' married made the Sassenach right brazen," Rupert retorted.

"I'm Scottish now, officially," Morgan reminded them. 

"Yer married to a Scot," Rupert corrected. "Yer still a Sassenach."

"If the Crown comes looking for me, I'm Scottish," she snipped. "Whether or not I was born here."

"Aye, yer safe from Black Jack Randall. At least until he catches wind that yer married to Jamie. He's been trailing the lad like a hunting hound," Angus grimaced.

"Does he have a fixation with all Scottish that cross his path?" Morgan asked, perturbed by the captain's persistence. 

"Nay, jus' the ones who get away," Angus informed her. 

Morgan shivered at the thought, recalling his rough fingers against her mouth, the forced kiss on her lips. What else would he have done? What if she hadn't ran? What if she never came across the highlanders in the middle of their skirmish? 

_ There are no 'what if's, deal in absolutes, _ Morgan chastised herself. God truly had saved her. There was no other explanation for it. He had put her through trials, tested her, reminded her that the world was dangerous and she had to keep her head on a swivel.  _ But  _ He had given her the chance to grow in Leoch and to make new friendships and placed Jamie in her path.

Now, He had provided her with the answer to their problems. Morgan just had to be strong and resilient. 

"But we di' come to get ye for the MacKenzie," Rupert spoke up.

Was this for the journey to Castle Campbell? Either way, there was no denying the laird's call, especially since they had hosted her wedding. Setting down the herbs she was bundling, Morgan nodded, removed her smock, and trailed after the two men. She tossed one glance back at Laoghaire, as if to tell the girl that she'd speak to her later.

Through the halls and up the stairs, there was a clamour within Colum's office. The three of them halted, even Angus and Rupert a bit paled by the shouting Gaelic. Throwing a tentative smile toward Morgan, they opened the door and ushered her in. Within was pandemonium.

Alistair stood opposite of Colum, his large hands splayed on the desk in front of him. Papers were scattered, some still floating down in the air like leaves from a tree. Colum's face was caught mid spasm, his chest heaving, cheeks a blotchy crimson against his pasty complexion. Wild eyes whirled toward her and Morgan pinned her back to the doors, wishing she could fumble the door and leave. 

Colum's fury did not leave as he smoothed some of his hair. "Doctor Fraser!" he snicked, Morgan snapping up straight. "It seems someone is in more dire of a need fer yer skill than me."

Alistair did not balk, his hard emerald gaze pinning the laird. Standing up, he straightened his tartan and turned his head to gaze intently at her. 

There was no Dougal or Jamie.

"Congratulations, Dr. Fraser," Alistair's voice was as cool as his expression, a chill grasping Morgan. There was a danger in him, similar to what she had seen in Randall. She wanted Jamie there, but knew that there was no turning away.

"Thank you," Morgan managed through a strangled voice. 

"Come," Colum demanded.

Morgan willed her legs forward, tottering toward them like a marionette. Finally, she stood at the edge of the desk, which separated the two highlanders. "Who is in need of my assistance?" she inquired weakly.

"Mr. Campbell has come to me asking for me to lend ye to him. It would seem his father, the laird of the Campbell Clan, is quite ill," Colum elaborated, keeping his eyes searing on Alistair's tall form. "Ye would think the best doctors from Edinburgh or Glasgow woulda been enough."

"What is ailing your father, Mr. Campbell?" Morgan asked, hoping that maybe she could find out if it would be possible to heal the laird. 

Alistair settled back on his haunches, crossing his arms as he considered them. Was this illness so grave that sharing it would be dangerous? "He's in a deep slumber induced by the shakes he gets."

The shakes? "And you cannot rouse him?"

"Nay, not even pricking his finger will wake him."

_ A coma _ , Morgan deduced. "These 'shakes' that he gets. Can you describe to me what happens?"

"He stiffens up, cannae speak, cannae move. Sometimes he jerks in his arms and legs. The staff is trained to help him down so that he dinnae fall and hurt himself. Typically, he ken when they're aboot to come on."

_ Seizures _ . "And what happened with the last one that was different from the others?"

"He had three fits in one day. The third he dinnae wake from."

Morgan was beginning to suspect that the laird Campbell was epileptic. From the description that Alistair gave her, he was describing Myoclonic seizures. If his father was aware of when they were about to happen and staff were trained, there was little doubt this was a frequent enough situation that the entire castle knew how to handle it. 

"Doctor?"

"I think I may know what ails your father... But, that does not mean I know how to heal him. How long has he been in a deep sleep?"

"Four months."

Morgan's heart dropped. "And has he had fits while in this state?"

"Very infrequently, but we keep a healer with him at all times."

Whether or not the Campbell had permanent head trauma, Morgan could not say. She had nothing here that could help her see the state of his brain. This was looking rather drear. The man could be in a vegetative state, thus rendering any assistance would be impossible. Even worse, she wouldn't be able to tell. She and Jamie could sit beside the man's side praying for the day he woke up and was cognisant enough that Morgan could actually run some tests on him to see how affected he... If he woke up.

"Yer quiet," Alistair observed the lines of her face as Morgan stood there, quietly panning through the wealth of knowledge she had at her disposal, trying to discern what could be done.

Drawing in a breath, Morgan contemplated what to reveal. There were too many uncertainties at this point, even with Alistair explaining what was wrong with his father, that didn't reveal the rest of his history. For all she knew, there were more underlying issues that had exacerbated his epilepsy. 

Finally, "I am processing the information you have given me."

"And ye ken an answer?"

"Medicine is not that easy," Morgan answered thinly, drawing herself up. 

"Do ye think ye can heal him?" Colum intruded abruptly.

Morgan glanced at him, aware that he wouldn't be fond of losing her. Truthfully, her days were numbered there with Jamie being an outlaw. If they thought for a moment that she wouldn't follow him- "It is one thing to talk of a man in this state. I must assess him in person," she placated.

Colum did not like this answer by the contortion of his face. "Laird Campbell is Sleepin' Beauty. Ye dinnae when or if he can wake up."

"Whether there is something I can do, I do not know. Again, speaking of a patient is one matter, but I have to go through my own tests. There are various measures in which I need to take to try and even come to a diagnosis. Banking entirely on the premise of personal accounts, save you, not even from the patient, does not make a case I can deduce from a distance," glancing between the both of them. "People lie."

Alistair flared at her accusation. "I dinnae-"

"I'm not accusing you of lying, but you likely do not know of everything that ails your father. He may have covered some of it up to save you from the worst of his disease. All I can say decisively is that I  _ must  _ see the Campbell in person to begin any sort of treatment," Morgan interrupted, refusing to balk when she was the most knowledgeable person in the room on the subject matter. The confidence she possessed was not for herself, but for the torch she had picked up since becoming a doctor. Logic ruled here. Not her dolefulness.

Colum sank into his chair, sagging against it in defeat. "Then it cannae be helped," he admitted. "Leaving yer father to die... me own kin..."

She understood now. Had she told Colum there was no hope, he wouldn't have sent her on the premise of a foolish errand and possibly getting Jamie caught on the road. However, since she had insisted on going to see the laird, he had no choice... no an  _ obligation  _ to make certain that Morgan got there. The Campbells were his kin. Were this another clan as far south as the Campbells, he might have laughed in their face.

Alistair knew his hand. Morgan only needed play into it.

Turning her head, she leveled her chin, pinning a thin glare to him. The small moment of rage, or whatever it had been, was gone. Instead, he stood there, poised like a raven, feathers preened and a mask on his face. Jamie had mentioned he was dangerous and Morgan understood why now. She had unwittingly been manipulated, only realizing it the moment it had happened.

Alistair caught her eyes, a slight twitch in the corners of his wide mouth... a mouth similar to Jamie's.

"If ye are to take Doctor Fraser, ye take her husband into yer charge too," Colum pointed out, arranging the mess of papers on his desk. 

"I ken this when I laid the request before ye," Alistair stirred and spoke eloquently now. "I shall see them both safely to Castle Campbell where the doctor will assess and treat me father if possible."

"Very well. After, ye'll return them safely to Leoch?"

"Situation willing," Alistair nodded.

Colum grimaced, glancing over at Morgan. "Mr. Campbell wishes to leave in the mornin'. Perhaps not the honeymoon either ye were lookin' forward too."

"I didn't think our marriage came with the luxury of a honeymoon," Morgan's voice softed as she offered the man a smile. Despite the fact that he had held her prisoner there, he had made it a rather lofty cage, just like the gilded ones that held his exotic birds. _ Eun baeg. _

Colum chuckled at her joke. "I gift ye this one."

"How thoughtful of you," she drawled. The lines of his face were weary and he looked older than when she had first met him. His own disease was bearing down hard on him. She knew he didn't have long on this earth anymore and any goodbyes offered might be the last time they met. Dougal would become laird after and Morgan wasn't too certain if she wished to be in MacKenzie land after that. Laoghaire had mentioned to her that Jamie could be in line for the laird title if he wanted it, though he had not sworn fealty on the night of the Gathering.

Returning might be impossible if Colum was dead or dying.

"If we are to travel tomorrow, I must prepare my belongings and tell my husband," Morgan entreated, curtsying low. 

Colum nodded, dismissing her with a wave. 

Morgan departed from the office, her mind rushing with the information she had garnered from the severe conversation. When Jamie had told her about helping Alistair Campbell, she hadn't thought twice about it. Now, having seen the shadow inside the Campbell, she was worried that they were leaving the dark forest and walking into a den of lions. 

"Morgan!"

Before she had the chance to turn in the hall, she was sequestered into a small supply room. Letting out a yelp of protest, she balled her fists, ready to throw a punch at the person that had forced her in. Alistair loomed above her, not changing the situation.

"I only need ta speak ta ye in private," Alistair insisted, trying to ease her fists down.

Morgan had made an effort at taking a boxer's stance. "No! I'm a married woman now. We should not-" the gentleman demeanor shifted, Alistair grabbing her by her jaw. "Let me go!"

"Eun baeg," he purred. "That's what he calls you isn't it? I see why. Yer jus' like the little birds that Colum keeps."

Morgan wrenched her jaw away from him, backing into a stack of brooms. Hearing it from his lips felt wrong. " _ What _ ?" she snarled.

"Ye've got talons now. But dinnae mistake me. I truly need yer bonnie head to help me father."

Morgan's lip curled at him, her eyes scanning his face. Cocking her head, she considered it. "Why wouldn't you take the position as laird? You're certainly old enough," she considered out loud. "Not unless his death would cause issues for you." Not knowing who else was in line for the inheritance was an issue. Yet... "Or there are other people who can challenge your inheritance with him not conscious." 

Alistair glared at her. 

Morgan gave him a snide smile. "Ah. I see now. Do you even care about your father or just becoming laird?"

"I do care for him, but ye'd do well ta not ask too many questions. I'd hate fer yer new husband to fall on ill luck again and fer ye to never leave Campbell. I am in need of a wife meself."

Morgan's temper flared, taking a step toward him, though she was hopelessly matched. "I would never help you if you hurt Jamie," she promised.

"But if you're a doctor, you swore the Hippocratic Oath, no?"

Morgan's face fell, hearing the accent drop from Alistair's voice. "You're not Scottish-"

"And you're really a doctor," Alistair smiled wolfishly. "It wasn't too difficult to discern from your abilities and sutures. I've been stitched up in the same manner before. My father has epilepsy, perhaps more ails him, but I do not know what it is. You can only learn so much from dry medical books... As you put it kindly, people lie."

Morgan's stomach twisted as if a knife had been plunged into her belly. She thought she was beginning to understand Alistair, but this new revelation had shaken her. His accent wasn't English either. If she had to place it, he was American. "Then if you know so much, you'd know that I don't have the proper equipment here. I don't-"

"I can handle that," Alistair sneered. "I just need a  _ real  _ doctor who knows how to work them."

"But without electricity-"

"I can only assure you will gain access to items that will work without electricity. As for machines that can monitor his brain activity, that, I do not have."

"You're from the future then. Did you come through the stones?"

"Machrie Moor standing stones," Alistair sniffed. 

"When?"

"2000."

Morgan swooned at hearing that. "You were even further in the future than me. I was in 1963."

"I've been here for some time now. I tumbled through those stones as a child. Laird Campbell found me and took me beneath his wing. As far as anyone knew, I was a bastard whose mother had died, leaving me an orphan. My own lay to being laird has always been challenged due to my legitimacy, even if the Campbells are on the cusp of the Highlands," he explained grudgingly. 

"How do you have things from the future then? Did you draft them up?" Unless he was a genius too, there was no reason to believe that a child would somehow have known how to craft such items. 

Alistair snorted. "Nothing quite that exciting. I have been going between the stones to get things to help my father. But..." he trailed off. "Short of abducting a doctor, I'm afraid I have never really known what he needs."

Even if Alistair frightened her, he wanted to save his father to secure the Campbell Clan into his possession. Drawing a breath, she processed this information and set her eyes back to him. "Then, I will do what I can, but you know then that nothing is assured at this point. He may not wake up," Morgan reminded him.

"You'll make sure he wakes up," Alistair smiled thinly.

Exasperated, she curled her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. "You must know about the Battle of Culloden too then."

Alistair's tart expression fell and his eyes narrowed. "No? I was only 9 when I fell through the stones. I may have made journeys back but-"

"You never thought to  _ check  _ history?" she asked incredulously. Blinking a few times, she revealed to him, "The Highlanders are going to support the Jacobites, fight to try and overthrow the Crown, and lose...  _ miserably _ . I don't know if the Campbells will partake, but Scotland will lose what little freedom it is still clinging to now. Tartans will be outlawed as will speaking Gaelic."

Alistair shifted his weight between feet. "When?"

"Under three years from now."

Considering her, Alistair pressed a hand to his breast. "Dinnae mistake me," he took the Scottish side back. "I prefer me life the way it is now. This Jacobite uprising threatens the life I hold dear, just as the health of me father. But fer now, let us work one subject at a time. I'll see what is going on in regards to this...  _ uprising _ . These Redcoats are rather gettin' on me nerves."

Morgan released a small breath. "If that's all you'd wish to approach me with, I should begin preparing for our journey." She stepped around him to exit the closet.

"Do you love him?" Alistair asked her at the door, again with his American accent.

Morgan glanced back over her shoulder. "I don't know what it is yet, but I care deeply for him. I expect you to uphold your end of the bargain gaining his clemency and freeing us of Captain Randall."

Alistair smirked at her. "I am a man o' me word. I do still owe ye for stitchin' me up."

"Your assistance on the evening before the Gathering settled that debt," Morgan reminded him. "Just begin figuring out how to clear Jamie's name."

Leaving him behind, she quickened her pace down the hall, glad that no one was around to see her coming out of the supply closet. This complicated things  _ severely _ . While anxious to see what medical items Alistair could have for her from the 21th century, she knew it still wouldn't be the full spread of equipment that she required. Doubts pressed in her breast about Alistair's character, the flat American tone he had startled her with. 

Alistair needed her. That much she was certain of and she could use it for leverage against him if he so much as looked at Jamie wrong. She reached into her pocket, thumbing her rosaries, wondering how everything had played out this way. He had said he had traveled from different stones... That meant that it was likely there might be other time travelers hiding in the world, trying to change the course of history. 

Rather than going back down to her Surgery, Morgan left Leoch, heading down into Cranesmuir. With her hood up, she banged on the door of the house she had found Geillis in. Despite the fact that her old friend had murdered her husband, she  _ needed  _ her knowledge. 

An older man wearing a white wig, which was out of order and frizzy, lumbered to the door, his jowls quivering. "Who're ye, I dinnae ken yer face."

"Mrs. MacTavish... Castle Leoch's healer. Would it be possible for me to see your wife? I'm in need of herbs," Morgan entreated, heart thumping from the swift walk down there. 

"Ah, a customer... Right this way," he let her through the threshold and guided her upstairs where Morgan had her first reunion with Geillis. Knocking gently, the procurator fiscal's voice changed, simpering, "My love? We have a customer here. A Mrs. MacTavish?"

The door cracked open, Geillis' cat green eyes peering out. She opened it fully, swiping a hand delicately along her husband's back. "Oh,  _ Mrs _ . MacTavish. Ye ken she was jus' married yesterday."

"Congratulations," Mr. Duncan said dreamily. 

Morgan's brows furrowed, wondering if he was well as he spoke. 

"I'll see to the customer. Go and rest," Geillis chimed sweetly, her husband not needing to be asked again. Stepping into the attic, the door shut behind her. Once the stairs finished creaking, Geillis cocked a curious eyebrow. "I dinnae think I'd see ye again. How was yer first man? That Jamie-" she grinned devilishly. 

"I didn't come here to talk about my experience in bed," Morgan told her.

The smile dropped off her face. "I suppose not. Why're ye here?"

"I found another time traveler," Morgan breathed.

Geillis's naturally sly expression slipped right off of her face, jaw slackening. " _ Here _ ?"

"Yes, though he didn't travel through Craigh na Dun. Some other stones in Machrie Moor."

"That's south of Glasgow on the Isle of Arran.  _ Who _ ?"

"Alistair Campbell. He's next in line to become the laird of the Campbell Clan-" Morgan began to fill Geillis in on the events that had transpired, including how she had to heal the man in a coma to earn Alistair's trust and assistance. "From what I can tell, he has a lot of connections to English nobility. Enough pull with the Crown that he can promise Jamie clemency."

"And he might have enough pull to help us," Geillis fitted the puzzle piece together. "But I thought ye dinnae want anything to do with this."

"I have to now," Morgan admitted warily. "When Culloden comes, Jamie might insist on going."

"I ken he's a handsome man, but ye were forced into marrying him. Do ye  _ really  _ care for him or are ye doing this because of yer kind heart?"

"No, I care for him. He... is the first person since that's accepted me for what I am."

"How can he fully accept ye when he doesn't know yer from the future?" Geillis pointed out.

Morgan pursed her lips. "I-" but there was no logical answer, "-will tell him when the time is right."

"Or jus' kill em," she grinned.

Morgan scowled. "I'm not a black widow like you and if you'd think I had some sort of hope against a man who's nearly two meters tall-  _ No _ ! I will not even think about it."

"Yer besotted," Geillis snickered behind her hand. "Ye ken, I never took ye for the type to be in love. Maybe it jus' runs in yer family. Yer parents married after kennin' each other for jus' two weeks."

Morgan had thought much the same, wiping the smile off her face, trying to remind herself that Geillis couldn't be entirely trusted. "I wanted to let you know, because we will be leaving tomorrow. If you could buy any additional time - stall if you must - bye the more time Alistair has to work his fingers in the politics..."

"He's going to need yer help. Dinnae think yer gaunnae go to Castle Campbell and jus' be a doctor. This Alistair was clever enough to ken ye were from the future. He mus' ken yer a quick learner."

"Politics? Gill, can you see me floundering around in politics?"

Geillis took a step forward, Morgan not flinching for the first time. She picked up the end of Morgan's braid, thumbing the edge of it. "Ye were a girl when ye came here. Since I've seen ye, each time I see that yer more a woman," she reached up and tapped Morgan's forehead. "Yer a bloody genius, yer tellin' me that politics are harder than bein' a doctor?"

"It's logic and memorization versus manipulation and gilded words," Morgan huffed, frustrated.

"And posturin'. Ye managed to hold yer own here by manipulating.  _ Ye lied Morgan. _ Ye lied to survive. Lie to keep yer new husband safe. There's nothing dishonorable in lying to save countless lives."

Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath. Geillis was along the right track. God had not given her the ability to learn quickly and the more she thought about her circumstance, she wondered if the Lord truly wanted Scotland to be saved. Geillis couldn't do it on her own and now that Morgan had crossed paths with another time traveler, she was wondering what piece on the chess board they each were. Maybe Morgan was the Bishop and Alistair the queen.

"Ye'll be needing supplies for yer journey," Geillis interrupted her thoughts, beginning to pack a basket for her. 

"I don't have any coin with me," Morgan admitted.

Geillis rolled her eyes. "I dinnae care. It's jus' plants. I can go collect more."

Geillis glided around the room, carefully selecting items that would be useful for Morgan on their trip. She hoped that she wouldn't have the need to use any of them, but better to be prepared for a storm that didn't come. Standing at the door leading down the stairs, Geillis placed both her hands on her shoulders, gazing intently at Morgan. 

"Ye ken what to do. Try to send me letters, but I understand if it'll rouse too much suspicion," Geillis entreated, squeezing hard. "Be safe..." she tipped her head, picking at the scarf around Morgan's neck, a wicked smile unfurling on her face. "Are ye  _ certain  _ ye dinnae wish to stay longer and tell me how yer night was?"

Morgan's cheeks burned and she tugged the scarf back up, unable to make eye contact with her. "I should be going. There's a lot to do before tomorrow." Drawing her cloak close, she began to hurry down the stairs, shadowed by the blonde who saw her to the door. Neck still craned to look at Geillis, she said, "I hope we do meet again."

About to step through the threshold, Geillis' eyes widened and she reached forward, trying to snag Morgan's cloak. " _ Thig air ais a-steach _ !"

Words grating on her ears, Morgan turned, uncertain what it meant despite the desperation in Geillis' voice. 

"Ah, Miss. le Fay, it would seem I've caught you without your Gawain," the English voice entreated.

Morgan felt violently ill as she stepped out into the road where a party of Redcloaks were collected. Their mounted leader was sneering down his horse, raking his eyes up and down her; Randall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're returning back to the plot at hand! I did warn you all that it's going to serve away from Canon into AU territory. 
> 
> I wonder what's waiting in Castle Campbell ;) That is, if Morgan can get away from Randall.


	10. Within the Snare

Absolute terror rooted her to the spot in front of the procurator fiscal's house, unable to think, unable to breathe as the man that hunted her husband loomed above her. Only the kicking up of the dirt as he dismounted, crimson coat gleaming in the gray light of day, shook her enough that she took a step back. Her head turned, looking around a nervous town, apprehensively eying the British. 

"A proper greeting, Miss. le Fay. I am an officer of His Majesty, you will acknowledge me as such," Randall told her, squaring up before her, his eyes roaming from her face and to her scarf. "Hm, I thought you might have an unsavory profession. It would explain away your prior injuries."

Morgan drew her scarf in self consciously, finding her voice. "I'm married. I've slept with no man other than my own husband," she replied, voice cracking, throat dry and parched, tongue tacky.

"Married?" Randall arched a brow as if he did not believe her. "I don't recall you mentioning that when we first became acquainted."

"It was a rather recent endeavor," she admitted, hoping that mentioning her marriage would be enough for her to slip away. It wouldn't be that easy.

"Ah, well, you can explain it to me further," Randall unfurled a nasty smile.

She felt cold, gripping her basket, glancing around for someone to run up and save her. This was no fairytale and she wouldn't be so fortunate. Escorted by the men with Captain Randall, she was brought to the local inn where familiar faces - faces from church - gazed on anxiously. 

_ Please. Someone please send word to Leoch,  _ she prayed, her basket being put up on the bar as she was marched up the stairs and into the large receiving area and room. Randall dismissed the other men, posting them at the door so that she was alone with him. In her nightmares she had envisioned their reunion, always where Randall was forcing her to kiss him. Now, he stood just opposite the table from her as she attempted to put as much distance as she could between them. 

"I should congratulate you. I assume you married one of the filthy highlanders you were working with on the afternoon we met," Randall deduced, still believing that she had a hand in fooling them to lower their guard enough to be susceptible to attack. "What should I call you now, certainly not le Fay, as that is not your real name."

"Mrs. MacTavish," Morgan answered through clenched teeth, pressing her knees together to keep them from rattling.

"MacTavish," Randall chewed on that name. "Where have I heard that before?"

"M-my husband is related to the MacKenzies... Perhaps you recognize it because there are other MacTavishes in the area," she suggested, trying to bolster conversation between them to stall, to keep him away from her. 

Randall leaned against the table. "Maybe," he clucked, splaying his fingers. "Are you aware that you are wanted for suspected treason to the Crown, Mrs. MacTavish?"

"N-no," she stammered. 

"Hm," he observed, coming around the table to approach her. 

Morgan stumbled, catching her leg on an end table. She wasn't quick or coordinated enough, falling back onto the table as he was upon her. Captain Randall grapped her plait like it was a rope, tearing her to her feet. She cried in pain, knocking a candle from the table she had tripped over. 

"Lie to me again," he dared, hazel eyes reflected with the light of a nearby flame, which danced madly in his irises. He brought his free hand up as Morgan struggled, holding her head where he pulled at her braid. Tears had already fought their way from her eyes as she barely kept her footing. Randall pressed a dirty, rough thumb to her mouth, forcing her lower lip down.

Choking on a sob, she turned her head away, trying to get from him. She scrambled in resistance, Randall hissing in frustration at her hysteria. Gripping her braid, he whipped her down to the floor where she tumbled hard. Pain lanced up her hip, tracing down to her toes, her hands barely coming out in time to prevent her from smacking her head against the hardwood. 

Randall prowled forward like a jaguar, circling its prey, before he grabbed her by the collar of her dress, wrenching her up from the floor. Morgan was small, it took him little effort to lift her clean off her feet, pressing her back against the long table. The sharp end dug into her black, causing her to contort at an unnatural angle. 

"Let us begin again, Mrs. MacTavish," he entreated sweetly, one hand cupping her face from beneath her jaw, forcing her to hold her gaze with his. "Tell me, what were you doing on the road just three months ago, when my men came across you?"

"I-I was running from my ex-fiance. He was in Inverness and had beat me after I confronted him for being with another woman-" Morgan confessed, trying to find purchase on something. Her toes scraped at the ground, fingers plied for the table, perhaps if she could find  _ something _ . "I stumbled upon the MacKenzie Clan after. They took me in and helped heal my injuries."

"You would have me believe that the MacKenzie Clan took an English woman in?" Randall didn't wait for an answer, considering her with another intrusive glance. "I suppose you're rather helpless looking. It's not as if someone your size could manage much," he smirked in the face of her inability to fight back. "Have you enjoyed living amongst these savages? You must yearn to return to proper civilization, for the touch of a gentle man-"

"You're no gentleman," Morgan retorted through her teeth. 

"The fairy has teeth," Randall mused, pressing her harder against the table. She squirmed, the edge digging into her spine, causing her to spasm. "I was kind to you the first time we met, I could return you to England if that is what you prefer."

"Kind?" she whispered. "You undressed me without my permission and observed my naked body-" her remembering made her stomach roil. "I wish to be returned to my husband. If I'm not mistaken, I'm a citizen of Scotland, and you have no business in handling me like this. Once the MacKenzie finds out-"

"Shh, hush now," he growled, pressing his fingers to her mouth again. They smelled of gunpowder and copper - the familiar tang of blood unwashed from his hands. "You're just hysteric from the trauma incurred here. A poor young English woman, forced to serve the MacKenzies, subdued into an unwilling marriage where she was raped-"

" _ No _ ! That's not what happened-"

"It would be irresponsible of me to leave you here, especially due to their brainwashing."

Morgan writhed like a rabbit in the talons of an eagle.

"And in your grief and confusion, you were rather taken with the captain's kindness, for seeing through the deceit and lies, for  _ helping  _ you," he moved a hand, drawing up her skirts, trailing up her stockings with grubby hands. The only hands that she wished to touch her was Jamie's and she was terrified that no one in Leoch even knew what was going on. "But do not worry your pretty head, my little raven, I'll not tell them if you don't." 

Tugging the scarf around her throat, he revealed the kiss marks that had spotted her neck as if she were a dalmation. Touching a tender spot, he grinned as she cried out, scrunching her eyes shut in hopelessness. She didn't want to make a noise or to make him think she was enjoying it, because in her mind, she was being gripped by the devil himself. Fear smothered her, making her believe that if she even opened her eyes, Lucifer might stand before her in Randall's red coat.

"Hm? A saint?" he thumbed the golden necklace that was high around her throat. "An archangel... Tell me, did your husband buy you this?"

Morgan didn't wish to speak, too overwhelmed and terrified by this point.

"No, I recall you having this and a set of rosary beads. You're Catholic - rather rare for an English woman. Tell me, how does God view women who are promiscuous? Will your saint turn away from you after today? Was he even here to begin with?"

He pressed to her again, Morgan could feel him against her leg, aroused from her misery and fear. Again, he moved up her skirt, savoring her quivering lips and unwillingness to look at him. Think. Think! Randall inclined toward her and Morgan did the only thing she could, she spat in his eyes.

Randall hissed, releasing her for just a fleeting second. Morgan twisted, slipping from his grasp and falling to the ground on her knees. She scrambled, ducking beneath the table and trying to make her way for the door. Maybe if she could just open it and scream,  _ someone  _ would come from downstairs to help her. On hands and knees, she crawled like a child, trying to get up and reach for the door handle.

"You little whore-" Randall grasped her ankle, pulling her back underneath the table and toward him.

Morgan screamed, digging her fingernails into the wood, drawing lines in the flooring as she was dragged. She grabbed the leg of the table, refusing to let go until her sweaty, clammy fingers betrayed her. Randall had her back in his clutches, picking her up by the throat as he curled a lip at her. 

"It would seem we're at an impasse. Perhaps your ex-fiance was a bit wiser than I had realized before," he backhanded her, Morgan crying out from the pain that boggled her mind. She blinked away the stars, trying to catch her breath futilely against Randall's tightening grip around her throat, his nails digging into the tender flesh on her neck. "I did not wish to spoil this lovely face of yours, but you're more willful than I had anticipated."

He threw her as if she were little more than a ragdoll, sending her crashing onto the table, platters and glasses shattering on the floor when she sent them flying. Her body ached, trembling as she tried to sit up, feeling the crunch of glass beneath her elbow. It didn't feel real, raising her arm to see the shiny reflection of her face in the fragments stuck into her forearm. Liquid rubies blossomed, beginning to drip down her elbow, as she stared, entransed by it all.

And then he was upon her. 

Dragging her through the glass litter, Morgan was too light headed from her fall and being choked to do much more than whimper. "Now that you're thoroughly subdued, allow me to ease your pain-" he shoved up her skirts, revealing her legs, her bleeding knees, which stung against the cold air. He fumbled at the belt around his waist, just about to unbutton his pants when there was shouting outside the room. 

Randall snarled, keeping a grip on his prize, but he hadn't the moment to take her. The door flung open and Dougal MacKenzie stood there, barrel chest heaving and eyes wide with fury. 

Looking between them, he saw Morgan, bleeding and on the cusp of fainting with her skirts hiked up and Randall having positioned himself auspiciously. 

"What're ye doin'?!" Dougal demanded, fingers tight against his sword hilt. 

"Questioning a subject of the Crown," Randall replied silkily, releasing Morgan and taking a step back. 

"I dinnae ken that ye questioned a wummin between her legs," Dougal countered, wrath rapt on his face. "And a kin of the MacKenzie. She be a citizen of Scotland and ye overstep yer bounds."

"I, as a Captain of His Majesty, have the ability to question who I choose; Scottish  _ or  _ English."

"The questioning is done," the cool tone of Alistair Campbell sailed in behind Dougal. "A report shall be sent to yer commander for the attempted rape of Mrs. MacTavish."

Randall's countenance betrayed his confusion. "And who are you? I do not believe we've had the luxury of meeting before."

"Alistair Campbell. And ye'd do best to stay on yer leash, English dog. I dinnae think the Duke of Sandringham will be ta pleased if yer barkin' was betrayed to more influential folks like Duke van Straubenzee. He may na care for it, but I ken a handful of people who might," he threatened, holding the captain's gaze.

Dougal came forward, helping Morgan down from the table, holding up her bleeding arm. "Hush now, lass. Yer fine," he insisted, but didn't sound too convinced of it himself. 

"Campbell," Randall considered carefully. "You're not from around these parts."

"Nay, jus' visiting. Rather disturbed by the state of the highlands, ta be frank."

Captain Randall grimaced, but took his leave. 

"Lass, he dinnae manage to-" Dougal was unable to complete the sentence. Even if he had been dubious of her intentions while being in Leoch, only pity filled his eyes now. For a moment, she thought he might even care for her by the way he was unable to ask if she'd been raped.

Morgan shook her head, legs quaking like jell-O, unable to find purchase on their own.

"He did give her a severe beatin'," Alistair observed. "We shoulda gotten here sooner."

"I'm glad you got here at all," Morgan whispered. A minute later and Randall might have succeeded in undoing his trousers.

_ God... Raphael... Thank you. _

"Can ye walk?" Dougal asked.

Morgan tried again, but her legs wouldn't work, her vision dancing and her breath blowing from out of her. "Nay, she cannae," Alistair realized, offering to pick her up, but Dougal growled at him. She belonged to the MacKenzie Clan, not the Campbells. Scooping her up, he carried Morgan like a small child out of the room which was in absolute disarray. 

Safe. She was safe. 

Her head lolled against Dougal's arm. She wanted to go back to Leoch and to Jamie. His warm arms encircling her, protecting her from the worst in the world. 

"Mo chù!" Geillis gasped. "Come, I'll help clean her up before ye return to Leoch. Her arm is-"

"Her husband will hae a fit. I've got four men watchin' him to keep him from comin' down here to kill Captain Randall. I dinnae if they can hold him much longer,," Dougal said, brushing past Geillis.

"She needs ta be wrapped up. She's ta small to lose as much blood as us," Alistair insisted. "I'll return ta Leoch and calm Jamie. As long as he kens she's safe, it'll take the edge off his fury."

Dougal pursed his lips, but nodded, drawing after Geillis across town. Back within her home, they trundled up the stairs and Morgan was laid down on a lounging chair. Dougal paced by the door, glancing out the window from time to time to see if the Redcoats would return. However, it seemed that Alistair's threats had abated their confidence for the time being. 

Geillis rolled up Morgan's sleeve, which was now soaked in her blood. Removing the shards of glasses, one by one, Morgan strained against the lounge, her skin sallow and pale. Working as swiftly as she could, Geillis cleaned the injury, applied a poultice, and bound it as tight as she could to staunch the bleeding. Addressing her friend's other wounds including cleaning Morgan's skinned knees, the gouges in her neck where the skin was now bruising, and the few scratches on her face from when she'd fallen into the glass and servingware. 

"Debí haberte detenido antes," Geillis whispered, her fair face contorting with guilt. Her Spanish was rough, but Morgan knew that she blamed herself for not having stopped Morgan from running into the British in time.

"Another basket of herbs and I think we can call it even," Morgan joked weakly. 

Geillis gave her a hard look, taken aback by Morgan's humor. The woman she had known before wasn't prone to making jests in the midst of trauma. She had changed. "Sí ... Tenga en cuenta que ahora pueden venir a buscarlo en el camino."

Morgan had thought as much. Alistair had threatened to turn Randall in. It was entirely possible that Randall would try and kill Alistair before he made it back to Castle Campbell or escaped the sect of highlands that Randall provisioned. While she was glad that he'd knocked Randall down a peg, she also worried that Jamie would be in much more danger traveling from Leoch to Campbell. 

"I know. Alistair must know that too," she whispered.

The door in front of Dougal opened and Morgan hoped and feared that it would be Jamie. Instead, it was his godfather. Murtagh's eyes went straight to Morgan, his shoulders sagging in relief as he saw that she was awake and alert. 

"Ye almost done? Jamie is gaunnae tear Leoch apart if ye dinnae get back soon for him to make certain yer alright," Murtagh inquired.

"I think I'm suitably patched up," Morgan answered, grasping Geillis' hand with her uninjured arm, squeezing. "Just flesh wounds. I will recover." But it wasn't just that. Her heart was heavy, closing her eyes brought Randall's visage before her, confronting her as he roamed her legs and mouth. 

"A moment. I hear Mrs. MacTavish is ta be on the road and she'll be needin' some more supplies," Geillis objected, taking her hand away to begin filling a second basket. "She'll be needin' ta treat her injuries on the road."

The men waited a few minutes, rather impatiently, but they waited. Morgan swung her legs around, placing her feet on the ground, pushing slightly to see if she could bear her own weight. Her cheeks were hot as she thought about it. How small and weak she was, how even when she put her full effort into escaping, a man was barely jarred by her strength. 

Cradling her bandaged arm, Morgan finally stood up, swaying slightly from the blood loss. Dougal reached to steady her, but she stepped away. She would walk to Leoch on her own. Jamie was going to be in enough distress and the last thing she wanted was to be coddled further like a child in front of everyone. She was a doctor, not a girl. Accepting the second basket from Geillis, she gave her friend a long look. She knew it had been Geillis that had rushed to Leoch to find Dougal. Her eyes spoke the words for her: thank you.

Turning away, she was escorted by Dougal and Murtagh, back out into the town that was still reeling from the Redcoat occupation. Some, that had seen her capture, gave her long stares, catching their eyes on the bloodied sleeve she wore; a testament to her encounter. 

The familiar castle stood against a thin mist, obscuring the occupants within the tiltyard. Only after entering, could Morgan make out those that were milling around, including a throng of men that surrounded her husband. Rupert, Angus, and Alistair were amongst them, making an attempt to keep him subdued. 

"What if she's been captured by the Redcoats again? I wouldnae put it past Black Jack Randall to abduct her the moment we let our guard down," Jamie hissed, unable to keep his voice down as Alistair loomed in front of him.

"He wouldnae dare. Not after I had a word wit' him," Alistair did not balk, of comparable height to Jamie.

"It shoulda been  _ me _ . I'm her husband-"

"And yer wanted by Black Jack. Ye woulda jus' gotten captured and then what good would ya be ta her?" Rupert pointed out sharply.

"Ay, here they come," Angus broke up the two, pushing between Alistair and Jamie.

Jamie whipped past them, forcibly shouldering Alistair so that he might get a clean look at Morgan as she walked in slowly. She was trying to be strong, to prove that she wasn't as hurt as she felt. But the moment she saw Jamie's expression, she felt her heart ripped from her chest. The lines of agony were discernible, his brows forced together as he started at a trot and broke into a gallop, just in front of her in three strides.

Overwhelmed, Morgan choked on tears, her breath catching as Jamie bent down to grab her. " _ Eun baeg, _ " he soothed, holding her in his arms, his warmth encompassing her. Pulling away from the embrace, he gazed at her, his face flushed as he gently grazed over a fresh scratch on her cheek. "I shoulda been there."

"I'm safe," she managed between her tears, emotions having washed over her like a tsunami. "I'm safe," she repeated again, trying to convince herself that it was over. 

"He tried ta-" Jamie, like Dougal, couldn't bring the cursed word to his lips.

Morgan whimpered, trying to force the events out of her head, but they were there, lancing behind her closed eyes, rattling her even more. No one else in the courtyard mattered, even if they were watching on worriedly. The Redcoats had not dared to bother them in Cranesmuir up until this point, given the proximity to the MacKenzie. 

"The Surgery-" Morgan finally managed, wishing to get away from the attention and eyes.

Jamie nodded, picking her up.

* * *

"Yer wife, she's been taken for questioning by the Redcoats."

The words had stolen his breath away as he had been in the stables, acquiring the necessary equipment for the long ride they had ahead of them to get to Castle Campbell. Murtagh had agreed to come with them, having little reason to linger around the MacKenzies. His hands had fallen from the horse's tact, aware that the Redcoats would not have taken Morgan unless Randall was with them. 

Never had he known the terror and fury that he felt now. His stomach roiled like a cauldron over a hot fire and he knew there was only one thing he could do.  _ Find her. _

But Angus, Murtagh, and Rupert appeared. 

"Dougal and Alistair have gone for her," Murtagh entreated. "You cannae go. Ye'll be arrested on the spot."

"I'm her husband! I should be the first one there to-"

"What good are ye if yer in shackles?" Angus snapped, but his face was just as flushed, eyes darting between the others. Even if Jamie had married Morgan, Angus still seemed enthralled by the small woman. "Dougal will return her."

So they waited in the courtyard, Jamie cornered by the others, pacing like a caged tiger. He was unable to still his hammering heart, the blood rushing in his ears, and the fear he felt, not knowing what was happening to Morgan as he stood there. He was helpless, reminding himself that he'd promised her just yesterday that he would protect her. Now, he was caged, a coward who couldn't even face her captor because he was worried about being captured. Why make that promise if he couldn't keep it?

Alistair arrived first, but without Morgan, setting Jamie's already anguished mind into another fit. Now he had to go find her.

"Dinnae fash, Dougal's got her," Alistair informed them all.

"Why hasn't she returned?" Jamie demanded.

"The doctor was injured. Mrs. Duncan is tending to her wounds before she's ta be returned here," Alistair answered evenly.

Jamie's blood went cold and he licked his parched lips. Injured? She was so small, hurting her wasn't much of a feat. Randall need only to push her and she might break upon falling. He could envision her terrified blue eyes stretched wide, just like when they had first met. She needed him and he  _ needed  _ to be certain she wasn't hurt too badly.

"Murtagh-"

"I'll go, jus' ta make certain Dougal dinnae need another hand," Murtagh nodded, stepping away and heading in the direction that Alistair had just come from.

"I assure ye that she's jus' a bit bloodied, but nothing severe. He might've tossed her around a bit, but we stopped him before he could rape her," Alistair explained, not easing Jamie's doubt. They could be lying or saying anything to keep him here in Leoch. What if it was worse than they were letting on?

Then she returned. From beside Murtagh and Dougal, Morgan walked on her own, nursing an arm toward her chest. Her fair, freckled cheeks were scratched, strands of hair loose from her braid, dark marks against her throat. Pushing past the others, he snared her, clinging to her form, afraid that he was just imagining her visage, that this person was nothing more than a spectre and she was dead. No, he could smell the lingering herbs on her mixed with the scent of her blood. Morgan broke down.

Taking her away from the prying, pity-filled eyes, Jamie brought her to where she requested; the Surgery. He set her quivering form down on the cot in the corner of the room, kneeling before her as he drank her in. Her eyes were red and puffy, still brimming with tears as she couldn't bear to look at him. Was she upset that he hadn't come? 

Jamie's hand gently touched her face, tipping her chin up to see where she had been choked. Nail impressions in her soft, milky skin were fresh and glinted with coagulated blood. A few, superficial scratches were on her face, against her cheek and on her brow. The most notable injury was the sleeve that was crusted with dried blood, her arm wrapped up in linen. 

"Eun baeg," he wanted to know what had happened from her lips. The confirmation of others wouldn't settle him as much as hearing it himself.

Morgan glanced toward him, those keen blue eyes watery and red. "Jamie," she sniffled, unable to utter much more through a hoarse throat. Gears were turning, she opened her mouth to speak, but was unable to find words. Her face contorted, frustration sinking into her brows as angry tears formed at the corners of her eyes. 

"Shh, shh," he hushed, wiping away her tears before they had the chance to roll down her cheeks. "Dinnae fash-" he stood up, about to turn to put a kettle on the fire when he felt a gentle tug. Turning, he saw that Morgan had snagged his tartan in her hand, fingers trembling. "I'm jus' gaunnae make a pot o' tea. Ye sound like ye could use it."

Morgan, understanding, slowly released the plaid and settled back onto the cot. Jamie wasn't familiar with where all the supplies were, but he was capable of putting water on the fire. Behind him, his wife laid down, overwhelmed by the turn of events. He, himself, was weary from stress. Her eyes burned into him as she laid toward him, curling her knees up beneath her skirt, toward her chest. 

The kettle whistled, Jamie removing it, thumbing through the drawers until he found a little jar filled with loose tea. He'd come down there before when his stomach had been upset. Morgan had brewed him a tea with ginger and lemongrass. He tried to repeat what he had watched her do, his fingers too large for the dainty scoops and steeper. While aromatic, he wasn't too certain that he'd done it right. Pouring a cup, he brought it over to Morgan, who sat up and accepted it. 

The marks on her neck were darkening to his dismay.

Morgan made a face, quickly trying to hide it, but Jamie caught it nonetheless as he sat beside her. 

"Not too good?" he assumed.

"No, it's fine," she croaked. "What did you put in it?"

"If I hear ye say 'it's fine' one more time," he snarked, but relented, shoulders easing. "Lil' bit o' the black tea, some ginger, lemongrass..."

"Black tea?" Morgan arched a brow at him. "Oh, Jamie..." she smiled into the cup, still drinking it.

His brows furrowed and he got up, pouring a cup for himself, tasting the concoction he'd drafted. The black tea was bitter, in need of milk, honey, and/or sugar. The combination with the sharp bite of lemongrass and spice of ginger was abysmal. He spat it out.

"Dinnae drink that," he told her, trying to take the cup from her.

Morgan snatched it away, grinning at him. "You made it for me, best not to waste it. Camellia sinensis is expensive. Colum gave me that tea."

"It's terrible," Jamie protested. "How did ye make it last time?"

"Just ginger, lemongrass, chamomile, and a little lemon juice. A tea doesn't necessarily require actual tea leaves," she informed him, shivering as she forced down another sip. "Maybe you're right. I think I'm done with this."

Jamie took the cup back and began again. 

"Jamie, it's alright. I don't need any tea," Morgan protested.

He didn't listen, making another attempt at brewing a better pot. Returning to her side, he took a good look at her. She seemed to have calmed down considerably, but his heart still ached looking at the state of her. Just yesterday she had been a beautiful, blushing bride and today she had been beaten in Cranesmuir. 

"Why were ye in town by yerself?" he asked her gently, brushing her fingers with his. 

"I went to get more herbs from Mrs. Duncan... For the trip tomorrow," Morgan answered dolefully.

"Ye coulda bothered Murtagh ta go wit ye," Jamie reminded her, but was aware it was too late to speculate and reprimand her for doing nothing wrong. She should have been allowed to make a run to town without worrying. 

"I wasn't thinking," Morgan admitted.

"Ye werenae thinking?" Jamie chuckled quietly. "I never thought I'd hear ye say that."

Morgan interlaced her fingers with his, staring down at their hands. "I'm sorry. I was too comfortable. I should have considered that the English might make a trip to Cranesmuir, I just thought that maybe they wouldn't because of how close it is to Leoch. We only had one more day here-" she spoke quickly, the words tumbling from her mouth as her voice hitched, becoming small and high. 

"Dinnae apologize. Dinnae apologize," Jamie repeated, pulling her toward him, resting her beneath his arm. She quivered slightly, sniffling as she fought back tears again. "I thought I'd never see ye again. That... that  _ bastard  _ would take ye away. And I was stuck here, unable to help ye."

"You couldn't come. I don't think he realizes that we're married. If you had showed up, he would have taken us both," Morgan reminded him. "Why... Do you think I'm upset with you?"

Jamie pursed his lips, still feeling as if he'd failed her. It should have been him throwing the door open, beating Randall into the floor, and taking her away. "I shoulda been there."

"Jamie, I'm just glad that you're safe and that I escaped. Gi-  _ Mrs. Duncan _ must have come to get Dougal. I was leaving her house right when I encountered the party of English," Morgan said, sitting up to gaze up intently at him. "I'm shaken up and a little bruised, but he didn't manage to do much more."

"How long were ye wit him?"

Morgan considered. He knew that she was clever enough to piece the situation together. "Twenty minutes or so," she reasoned, shuddering as she thought back to it.

"He may not of gotten the chance ta rape ye, but that doesnae mean he dinnae do other things."

Morgan's growing resolve was brittle and he'd snapped it with that comment. She snatched her eyes away from him, threatening to cry again. "Would you not care for me if he did? If I'd been sullied by another man?" Panic rose in her chest and she began to hyperventilate.

Jamie floundered, trying to take a moment to understand what to do. She was traumatized and he's said the wrong thing. "No," he insisted firmly. "I jus' worry for ye. When we first met, ye were terrified when we found ye and Randall had just molested ye. If he did more, then I need to ken. I want to help ye."

She sagged back against him and closed her eyes. The kettle was screaming, but he didn't get up to remove it. "He didn't accomplish much more than last time," she admitted. "Aside from hurting me. It's just his words... I was scared that he was going to take me despite the fact I'm technically a Scottish citizen. He was saying terrible things - how I was brainwashed and that it was his duty to return me back to England," a breath whooshed out of her mouth. "I really thought that it was going to happen and that I'd be alone again... Well, not entirely alone. I knew he wasn't going to leave me in peace."

Being alone, save for the captor she feared. Jamie knew she was afraid of returning to being ogled and ostracized. Going back to England where she only had her withering father would put her right back to before they met. Only with Captain Randall, she wouldn't even have her peace. Part of him doubted that Black Jack would have returned her to England and just kept her as a pretty prize for himself. 

"The pot," Morgan groaned.

Jamie had been ignoring it, but left her to remove it and make a second attempt at the tea. 

"I'm worried," Morgan revealed to him. "That we'll be attacked on the road while traveling with Alistair."

"Why?"

"He left Captain Randall with some choice words about reporting him to his commander and another noble family that could circumvent his connections with the Duke of Sandringham... though, I'm not quite certain who that is."

"The Duke of Sandringham is a bit o' a strange fellow. Difficult ta tell where his allegiances lay as he talks quite o' bit and is never straight with what he has to say. Most people think him a fool, maybe by his voice or personality, but if he's working with Black Jack, I'm startin' to think that maybe he's more clever."

Morgan nodded, soaking in the information as she was offered a second cup of tea. Blowing over the top, she took a sip and smiled up at him. "Much better this time."

Jamie preened at the compliment and moved beside her again. "If Alistair threatened him, then aye, there's a good chance he'll try to see that Alistair doesnae make it home." The thought was unsettling. They could have moved across the countryside without much delay or worry, but now that Alistair had put a target on his back... 

"He'll have to travel separately," Morgan decided. 

"Whit? That's too dangerous-"

"A single rider can move quicker. Without us, he can cut the journey down. I'm afraid I don't know much about riding a horse, so I'm going to slow the party down considerably. If he rides ahead, we can carve our own path down there without being worried about being captured along with him."

"But that puts him in danger too if he does get captured," Jamie pointed out. 

"That's not our problem. And I'd wager that Alistair knows a few, less traveled paths back to Castle Campbell."

Jamie didn't like the idea one bit. Alistair was their connection to the Campbell Clan and the entire reason they were risking the journey down there. If he was captured or killed, then they would be going in vain. "I dinnae think he'll agree to the plan."

Morgan remained silent, thinking quietly as she stared blankly at the fireplace across from them. 

"Ye cannae sit a horse ta well?" Jamie broke the silence eventually, watching as she blinked a few times apprehensively.

"Er, no. I'm afraid the time I rode with you was my first time on a horse," she admitted to his astonishment.

"Why dinnae ask me ta show ye? Ye did come and visit me in the paddock a few times," Jamie asked.

"I didn't like it last time, rubbed my legs absolutely raw," she grumbled.

"Ye can ride with me again if ye'd like. Putting ye on yer own horse might not be a good idea," Jamie remarked, imagining her trying to steer a horse, if her feet even reached the stirrups. A pony might be a better idea given her size, but the only pony that Leoch had belonged to Hamish. "Will be a little tight, but I dinnae think ye'll mind as much."

"We're married now," Morgan reminded him, a blush spreading across her nose and the top of her cheekbones. "But you were very kind to me, even then."

"Ye kept me from dyin'," Jamie grinned. "But I will admit that most of the time, I was focusin' on yer arse up against me and yer legs when they were tanned. Ye were the bonniest lass I'd ever seen and I had ye right in me grasp."

Morgan grumbled something unintelligible beneath her breath. 

"And then the chance to marry ye came up... I wanted ta right at the beginning, but ye were always so proper," he considered for a moment. "And opinionated."

"I can't help how I am," Morgan sniffed, slightly indignant. 

"I dinnae say being opinionated was bad," he poked, leaning against her, wrapping his arms around her slender form. "I like how smart ye are. I ken if I'm ever ailing, ye can fix me."

"Within reason," she reminded him duly, but there was that lovely, gentle smile on her face. "That doesn't give you leave to get yourself hurt. I'd prefer my husband stayed in one piece."

"No promises," Jamie retorted. "I've always had ill luck, but when I'm with you, eun baeg, I ken it all paid off. I cannae imagine what I woulda done if Dougal dinnae return with ye."

"Probably rode after me like an idiot," Morgan speculated.

"Probably," he rested his cheek against her soft hair. "I woulda rode right into Fort Williams if I had ta."

"Pray we never see that day."

"I pray I see ye everday," Jamie told her, bending done to press his lips to her temple. "I pray that we get to Castle Campbell safe. I pray that ye can heal the laird. I pray that we canna have children and not worry aboot a reward on me head. I pray... that ye are always safe and not to see ye upset."

Morgan turned up to look at him, her lip quivering, but not because she was still upset from the day's endeavors. He realized his words had moved her as she encircled his neck and pressed into him. "I pray for the same, Jamie. I pray for the same."

  
  
  


* * *

**Character Info:** Since it hasn't been pointed out before, only mentioned that she's small, Morgan is only 4'11" and 95lbs soaking wet. Which is why any time she attempts to put up a fight or resist someone, it's in vain. It also goes more in hand with Jamie calling her 'little' given how much tinier she is than him and most people. Now you may be able to envision why he was so afraid to break her. ;)

Also, because I love pictures and wished to show the differences between her arrival - these are that of the muse I used to decide on Morgan's appearance. I find having a face claim helps the descriptions come to life.

First Arrival Morgan - [One](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e4/8f/44/e48f4488d20cdc86516f0dcda05c860e.jpg) | [Two](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/17/51/e6/1751e6070e3096f821923833289720fa.jpg)

Current Morgan -[ One](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/76/a0/58/76a0587f8d728dfd1d661449085736a8.jpg) | [Two ](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e6/a7/8d/e6a78d9701d6ac3d8f43716ab5fc5d1f.jpg) (This one is my favorite)


	11. There Are No Secrets

She was nervous.

The open road was stretched in front of them, her fingers tightening on the horn of the saddle. Still aching considerably, Morgan knew she wouldn't even be of much help during a fight if she wasn't injured. Still, Alistair's warning wouldn't have fallen on deaf ears and nor did he hear her objections. The four of them would ride together for Castle Campbell. While having felt as if they were barely avoiding the sniffing of the hounds in Leoch, being outside the protection of the stone walls was harrowing. 

Until her encounter with Randall, even Cransmuir had felt like a cloak of invisibility. Now, they only had the hope of getting to the southernmost reaches of the highlands and to be honest, Morgan was doubtful they would reach it without trouble. Leaning back against Jamie, she kept her arm close to her. It still stung, the cuts received from the glass were jagged and not clean. Geillis had properly wrapped it up and applied the correct herbs, but it didn't change the fact that it hurt.

She yearned for a painkiller, but resolved to just bear the pain, along with her sore jaw - yet again - and her bruised back and neck. The Scottish countryside was beautiful. She had fallen in love with it long ago, how vibrantly green it was, the way the mist would cling to the grass in the morning. Even now, the trees sagged toward them, covered in thick moss, and whispering the sweet secrets of what may lay deeper into the woad. 

There was a magical quality to it all. Many of the highlanders believed in faeries, but did not liken it to witchcraft. They were too separate things. Faeries had been with the land since its origin, witchcraft was what disciples of Satan wielded. While aware that the world was not quite so simple, Morgan understood the divergence in the paths. At least, she understood it well for a Sassenach. 

A bark in the distance had the men look amongst each other, but a second did not follow. "Cù Sìth?" Murtagh speculated, drawing a grin from Jamie.

"Nay, unless we hear a second, then maybe," Jamie answered.

"Cù Sìth?" Morgan echoed, the only amongst the three that was uncertain of what they spoke. She had been picking up Gaelic until this point, but she had never heard that name spoken before.

"Aye, the fairy dog," Murtagh answered. 

"Banrigh sìthiche," Morgan recalled, craning her head up to look at Jamie. "Sìth."

"Aye, it means fairy," he tapped her nose. "It's a large dog, the size o' a young bull. They range from shaggy green ta white. It's said that they have coiled or braided tails, sometimes with paws that are human. But ye never want ta see one."

"Hear it more like," Alistair glanced back. "They say that if ye hear it howl or bark three times, it'll drive ye mad with terror and kill ye. Cù Sìth will then escort ye to the underworld..." he paused, considering. "Although, they're also said ta take nursing wummin to fairy mounds so that the fairies can drink the milk."

"Ye worried, Campbell? Are ye nursin'?" Murtagh poked, rousing a laugh from the rest of them. 

"Maybe in a couple o' months," Alistair retorted, nonplussed by the teasing. "Sounds like a shepherd though. If I ken, there's moors up by this forest."

"I reckon yer right," Murtagh agreed. 

They finished their journey for the day when the sun began sinking low and daylight fled behind the trees. Unfurling bedrolls, Morgan prodded a pot of stew. They had packed away heartier food that wouldn't waste throughout the week, mostly root and tubular vegetables; carrots, turnips, onions, potatoes, and garlic. There were some apples, salted meat, and jerky in addition. It wasn't the most flavorful or wonderful food, but it did the job in keeping them energized and moving. 

Morgan boiled water and brewed a chamomile tea for the group to settle down to. Murtagh turned it away, volunteering for the first watch. It was now three days into their journey and not a peep of red on the road. They were all expecting it, having talked about it prior to their departure. A chill swept across the camp, warning of the approaching winter. Snuggling closer to Jamie, Morgan let out a deep breath, hoping that their journey would soon come to a peaceful close. 

"Wake up," Murtagh roused them all.

Metal glinted in front of her eyes, catching the light of the fire's embers. Jamie gripped the hilt in his hand, the group remaining low to the ground as they heard the sound of approaching hooves in twilight. The stars winked on them from above, the moon too thin to bask the forest with any sort of light. 

Alistair was lying prone on the ground, his rifle propped against his arm as they all held their breath.

"One rider," the Campbell grumbled.

"Dinnae move," Jamie murmured in her ear, pressed above her, creeping forward from where their bedrolls had been lying beneath the open sky. 

She didn't need to be told not to move. Morgan really didn't want to go anywhere and chance being rode down.

Straining her ears, she heard the clopping of a set of hooves, dancing against the road they had camped uphill from. Morgan couldn't see them, but the rider turned, perhaps surveying the land before halting.

"What're they doin'?" Murtagh hissed.

"I dinnae, they seem... lost," Alistair realized, pulling down his rifle. "Jamie, go forward with me to get a better look."

Jamie nodded, prowling forward, keeping low to the ground as Murtagh remained in the camp with her. The men moved stealthily down the hill, toward the cantering horse with the uncertain rider. Eventually, the silence was broken by hoarse Gaelic, their voices rising. 

Morgan sat up, aware that whoever they had found was Scottish. 

"Feumaidh tu a bhith a ’magadh orm," Murtagh cursed, returning his dagger to its sheathe. He stood up, giving Morgan a weary glance. "Come on lass. It's not the Redcoats."

She was now sitting, wrapping the blankets around her as she glanced on curiously, wondering who they had passed on the road. Had it been just a traveler, they would have sent them on their way. Instead, the rider was now approaching up the hill. 

Jamie's voice rose, chastising the rider. 

Dismounting, Morgan could see that the rider was slight. "Cha robh roghainn agam!" she recognized that voice. 

" _ Laoghaire _ ?" she said incredulously. 

"Morgan!" the girl rushed toward her, dumping the reins of her horse on Jamie before sputtering into the camp. She thumped down beside her, throwing back her hood to reveal her golden hair. There was one addition that Morgan saw immediately; a black eye, the bottom of her eye puffy and purple.

"What happened to your face?" Morgan gasped, reaching forward to graze the teenager's wound. 

"My Da decided ta give it ta me. Even though I dinnae do anything," she sent a glare in Jamie's direction.

"You rode after us by yourself?" Morgan felt dizzy thinking how a 16 year old would fare on the road. God must have been with her or else Laoghaire might have faced a similar fate as Morgan had.

Laoghaire nodded. "I couldnae stay in Cranesmuir or Leoch. I thought if I caught up ta the party, I could start fresh in Castle Campbell-"

"Do you not realize how dangerous that was!?" Morgan's voice cracked and she gripped Laoghaire tightly by the shoulders, her knuckles going white. "Your grandmother is probably worried sick!"

Jamie plopped down beside Morgan, just as dismayed as his wife.

"I dinnae get hurt. I'm fine, see?"

"Laoghaire!" Morgan reproached. "We have been worried about Redcoats tailing us for days. They could have very easily captured you and had their way."

"Na ta mention she's a liability now," Murtagh grunted. "One wummin is enough ta worry aboot."

"We cannae send her back," Alistair grimaced, flopping onto his bedroll, picking his nails with his dagger. "I dinnae how she did it, but she's here now. Sendin' her back only increases the probability that she'll be intercepted."

It was decided. They couldn't turn Laoghaire around, nor was it worth while for one of them to peel off to return all the way to Leoch. Only Murtagh could turn around, but doing that would weaken them considerably. Aside from her ability to patch them up, Morgan was dead weight and using the same horse as Jamie. Even though she was the necessary piece to add to the chess board in Castle Campbell, she couldn't help but feel utterly useless. The land, while beautiful, was foreign. If somehow she was familiar with how it looked in the future, nothing was the same.

Now she also had to worry about glancing over her shoulder every so often to make certain that Laoghaire was safe. Not that she could do anything if she wasn't. Each step toward their destination gave her time to decide what equipment she would need. It also duly reminded her that Jamie had no idea what laid in front of them. Both she and Alistair were aware of time traveling, but if Jamie were to see the equipment she had acquired and knew how to use...

_ I have to tell him, _ she realized, though the very thought terrified her. He had promised that he would stay with her, that he would protect her, but what if he thought she was a time traveling witch and wanted nothing to do with her? Within the confines of Morgan's own mind, she was her own worst enemy. Over and over again she kept replaying various scenarios where it could go wrong. The worst ranging from Jamie killing her to Jamie simply leaving her to her fate in Castle Campbell. 

She didn't wish for that either. Even if there was an alliance between them, there was a fine like that both she and Alistair understood. Betray me and I'll make you pay. Only they would be in Alistair's domain, thus making it more likely to play out in his favor. 

They took a break midday, deciding that traveling at night might be better. Less likely to encounter anyone and with the ability to see other riders coming, it had proven to work thus far. 

Morgan bent in front of a stream, dipping her hands into the icy water to splash it on her face. A gentle sigh passed her lips and she felt her anxiety twinge. They were growing ever closer to Castle Campbell and it felt as if the most dangerous part of their journey was over. Still, she couldn't shake the heavy weight on her shoulders, the fear that in just a few days time everything would be wrong.

"Eun baeg," Jamie startled her, coming around from between the trees to see what she was up to.

Being on the road meant there was severely less time for privacy, let alone intimacy. Morgan, while she wished to, felt incredibly awkward trying to show Jamie how she felt. With three sets of eyes just wandering all the time, she couldn't help but feel that they pinned onto the couple at any given chance. Despite the fact that they were married, public displays of affection felt strange, and it wasn't even because Morgan was in the past. Personally, she was just a very private person.

"Mi escocés," she greeted, a reluctant smile unfurling across her features. For now, it seemed they might have time alone. 

He took a seat beside her, stretching out his long, muscular legs before fastening his dark blue eyes to her. "How are ye farin'?"

"Nervous," Morgan admitted, twisting her fingers in the grass in front of her. 

"We're nearly there," Jamie told her. "Is anything else botherin' ye?" he paused, considering her before deciding to continue, "Ye seem distant."

Morgan fidgeted with a ring and then glanced into the woods, wondering if anyone else was nearby. "I don't mean to be, it's just the situation. And what may be waiting for us up ahead."

Jamie seemed unconvinced, which only did more to fray her anxiety. "I ken bein' on the road innae easy. I wish ye'd jus' talk to me."

Morgan remained silent, trying to process through her thoughts, which felt deafening at this point. "Do you remember the night the bard sang that song... the one about the lady who came through the stones into another time?"

Jamie's brows furrowed, but he entertained the tangent. "Aye, I remember. Why?"

"What do you think of that tale? Have you heard of such a thing happening before?"

"I dinnae, I cannae say. Perhaps it's possible, the highlands are a strange, magical land," Jamie speculated unknowingly. 

"What do you think of the people who travel through the stones?" she pressed.

"They're lost. I suspect that goin' back in time is probably terrifying."

Morgan let out a small breath. "Can I tell you something and you promise you won't laugh at me?"

Jamie cocked a gentle smile at her. "Aye, I promise. But I may call ye adorable after, which usually feels worse."

Morgan chuckled quietly. "Jamie...  _ James  _ Fraser. I'm falling in love with you, perhaps... I'm already in love with you. I don't know, I've never quite felt this way about anyone before, but-" she drew a sharp breath. "There is something I must tell you.  _ These are the things that you shall do: Speak the truth to one another; render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace _ ," she quoted, voice quivering slightly. "I don't belong here. Not because I'm English but... the day that you found me, I had tumbled through the stones like the woman in that song. I was at Craigh na Dun when it happened - I followed my friend through them after she murdered her husband."

Jamie remained quiet for a minute, her heart dropping as she waited for an answer. She twisted her fingers in her skirt, wondering if she'd made a mistake and that her nightmares would come true. "Ye came through the stones?" he murmured, trying to make sense of it. 

Morgan nodded slowly. "I'm a doctor, a real doctor, from the 20th century. 1963 to be exact. I didn't lie about what happened to me. The man I was seeing did beat me before I fell through the stones, but it's complicated..."

"1963," he repeated, nearly 200 years in the future. "What aboot yer family?"

"My mother is dead and my father does truly have Alzheimer's, a disease that degrades the mind. However, if we were to go to Spain, we would not find any Castellos that I know."

"What's it like? ... In the future, that is."

Morgan opened her mouth and then her brows pulled together. "Do... you believe me?"

Jamie's blank expression changed and he turned his eyes toward her. "Ye've always been honest with me and hearin' this... It's starting to fit pieces of the puzzle that I dinnae care to acknowledge before. Also might explain why ye dinnae think before ye go places. It's safer for wummin in the future, innit?"

Morgan cracked a smile. "Yes, a woman can usually travel on her own. Some places are still not safe, but... it's considerably safer than here," she took a breath, some of the worst of her fears beginning to fade. "I was afraid to tell you. I was afraid how you would react."

"Why, eun baeg?" 

"Because I sound mad," Morgan retorted.

"I ken ye," he reached for her hand, grasping it in his enormous paw. "Ye are too logical, unless this is some sorta joke."

"No, it's not a joke," Morgan assured him. "And that brings me to the next topic. Alistair is also not from this time. He's from the 21st century."

Jamie looked considerably confused by this. "Alistair? But I've ken him since-"

"Since he was about 9?" Morgan deduced, watching as Jamie pursed his lips. "Alistair realized I was from the future due to my abilities. The sutures I used to patch his side up... they're not developed yet. The technique is too modern. He knew that I may be able to help his father because I have medical knowledge from the future, that people now, even doctors, do not have."

"Laird Campbell isnae his father then."

"Alistair feels that he is, but from what I understand, Laird Campbell came up with the tale that Alistair was his bastard son, whom he had discovered after finding Alistair at the Machrie Moor faerie stones. He's American."

Jamie was perturbed, but seemingly not because of her. "And ye said that ye came through the stones after followin' a friend. Did ye find them again?"

Morgan nodded. "Yes, that friend is Geillis Duncan."

"The witch?" Jamie gaped.

"Yes, that would be the one. She was the only real friend I've had my entire life, but even now I wonder if she just did it because of my intelligence and ability to learn quickly and retain information like a book. I stayed away from her because of the village's whisperings about her being a witch. I was also afraid of her because she murdered her husband, who I was fond of."

"Mo dhia," Jamie cursed, trying to wrap his head around it all. "And who did ye murder to come through the stones?" She couldn't tell if he was joking.

"No one, I just lost a gemstone from this ring," she showed him the gold ring with the empty setting. "I don't think she really needed to kill him, but she didn't know. To be honest, I didn't believe in any of this magic until I was sucked through the stones. Geillis had been training me and I entertained her because I felt bad."

"Do ye wish to go back?" Jamie asked her.

Morgan considered this question many times. Her father was still in hospice, but he had been going downhill fast. Whether or not he was still alive, she couldn't say, but to trade what she felt- "No, I do not," she answered eventually, glancing toward him. "What would I return to? I told you the truth about my family. My father doesn't remember me. People look at me as if I've got three heads. Not to mention, I also will have a lot of explaining to do about Greg Edgars being dead and my car being found at the scene of the crime-"

"Car?"

Morgan smiled, realizing her mistake. "It's a vehicle, like a horse, but much faster and it is not living-" she began explaining it to him, breaking it down into simpler terms or by the questions he followed up with. This led her around to explaining many more things she had taken for granted like electricity, tap water, plumping, aeroplanes, television, modern medicine.

"Ye cannae even do all ye could there, here," Jamie remarked after listening to what her job was like back in the future.

"No, I cannot, but I make due," Morgan agreed.

"Do ye ken what is ailing the Campbell?"

She shook her head. "I have my theories, but I told Alistair much the same - without electricity and the right machines, there is little I can do but hope. Even if I do diagnose him, I may not be able to treat him."

"And ye ken all this and still agreed ta it?" Jamie said, taken aback.

"I had to. If there was even the slightest chance of winning your freedom, I had to take it, no matter how daunting the prospects," Morgan insisted.

Jamie smiled at her, still gripping her hands between his. "This doesnae change anything," he promised her. "Well, it changes how dangerous the situation goin' into Castle Campbell, but not how I feel. I canna only imagine how terrifying admittin' this was, especially since ye tend to overthink things."

"I do not overthink things," Morgan scoffed, but stared at their hands, aware that it was true. "I thought you'd call me a witch or something and want nothing to do with me."

"Nay," Jamie tugged her forward, pulling her onto his lap so that he could wrap his arms around her, encasing her in his warmth. She relaxed, hearing the strong beat of his heart against her ear, smelling the familiar scent of fire, wood, whiskey, and a bit of sweat from their days on the road. "Even if ye were Morgan le Fay herself, I dinnae think I'd care much."

"Why?" Morgan pressed. "If I were a witch or a fairy, I think you'd ought to be wary."

"Because I'm in love with ye, eun baeg," he nuzzled down toward her, turning her chin up and kissing her sweetly. "I ken it when I married ye."

Morgan blushed at the thought, thinking back to when he had strung his mother's pearls around her neck and told her that she was precious to him. "You did?" she asked weakly. "How?  _ Why _ ?"

"Why?" Jamie mused. "I thought I already told ye-"

"I wouldn't mind being told again," Morgan smirked.

"Mo dhia, where do I even begin?" Jamie sighed, sitting back slightly, but still holding her. "When I first met ye, I thought ye were the most beautiful wummin' I'd ever seen. Then ye jumped up and healed me arm while ye could barely walk. Mighta been around then that I decided I liked ye... Just watchin' ye, so scared, yet resilient. Not once did ye complain, but ye did cluck at me like a mother hen when we fell off the horse. Then in Leoch, when ye were patchin' me up, ye were just so... compassionate, sweet, and gentle - I ken I couldnae stand ta see ye hurt. Not someone with a heart like yers. Ye were precious. Somethin' to be cherished.

"When ye were ta leave, I ken it wasnae me place, but I wanted ta ask ye not to. We hadnae even ken each other for a week and I was disappointed ta see ye go. I hoped that somehow ye'd return and I'd be around to see ye - to work me feelings out before then... And then ye stayed. I dinnae ken how hard it was for ye, but ye put on a good face. Most everyone thought ye were happy aboot the arrangement, though by the end of it, I canna see ye were irritated with the MacKenzie - especially when ye had ta be bothered by men visiting ye for no reason-"

"If I recall, you were amongst those men," Morgan interrupted smartly.

"Aye and ye ken that after ye snapped at me. Ye may be prone to fashing, but ye always like ta pretend that yer 'fine'. Takin' everyone else's problems and puttin' them before yer own wellbeing. Yer stronger than ye think, but ye never focus on yerself. I ken why, ye told me yerself, but I still dinnae quite understand," he tucked some of her hair behind her ear. "I love ye for who ye are, all of ye - the smart, the sweet, the kind, the selfless, or even when yer heckling me with yer worry. Yer beautiful inside and out and I'm lucky ta have such a wonderful wife."

Morgan felt a tight smile pinned to her lips as she hugged him. "You make me feel like I can be myself. I've always had to hide who I was, for fear of alienating people, but the fact that you like me the way I am - heckling you are not - means the world to me, Jamie," she told him. "I'm sorry if I seemed distant, but I was worried about what you would think when you found out about where I'm from. I was worried I'd lose you and your the first person who has ever been this way with me aside for my parents."

"Nay, never," Jamie promised her. "We'll make it through this. And then when ye heal the Campbell, we can return to Lallybroch and ye can meet Jenny."

"I'd like that," Morgan admitted, drawing a breath more easily now. "A small practice and a simple life. I feel, as long as I'm with you, I don't need much more."

"Mm," Jamie pressed his forehead to hers, his lashes swiping across her cheeks. "We should be sleepin'. Instead yer tellin' me all fanciful things aboot the future."

"It's probably almost time to go," Morgan realized, their conversation having continued much longer than anticipated. 

"Shame," Jamie mumbled, caressing her cheek, drawing his finger down her neck. "We finally have a moment to ourselves and ye had ta go tellin' be aboot yer history when we coulda been doin' other things."

Morgan shivered from his touch, her neck having healed a bit since her encounter the Randall. She couldn't hold back the smile from him, giving him a playful shove before standing up. "Tumbling wouldn't have fixed anything."

"Nay, it wouldnae, but I'd feel a little less tempted if I had me wife again like our first day together," he admitted, standing up beside her, adjusting his kilt. 

"Just a little longer to Castle Campbell," Morgan entreated.

"I dinnae if I canna wait that long," Jamie purred, coming up behind her, enticing her as he slid his hands against her hips, drawing her back against him, rocking slightly. 

"We don't have much of a choice," Morgan sighed, enjoying the feeling of his hands against her. She wished it was against her bare skin and not in the cool forest, but they had chosen this path. He didn't relent, sliding his hand up the bodice of her dress, squeezing against her breast. "Jamie," she tried to complain, but it came out more as a moan. She wanted him just as much.

Lashes flickering, she saw something up ahead as Jamie craned down to kiss her neck. The passion was gone, replaced with a kick of adrenaline. 

"Jamie!" she hissed, her voice suddenly urgent. 

Jamie stopped, glancing up to look where she was. He drove them to the ground with a thump. Crawling forward, the both of them glanced over the small berm that they were lying flat against. What Morgan had noticed was a flash of red as riders passed by below. There was a convoy of British soldiers moving on the road. They didn't appear to have noticed the pair on the ridge, but that didn't mean they wouldn't run into others.

Morgan counted five riders, glancing anxiously over to her husband. Jamie had his knife in his hand, gripping it tightly as he considered what they should do. They waited for the riders to pass out of view before Jamie turned to her. 

"We need ta get back ta the camp," he told her quietly.

Climbing to their feet, they skirted through the woods to where camp had been established. The others were resting, Alistair carving an animal out of a chunk of wood he had found.

"Redcoats," Jamie announced hurriedly. "They're getting ahead o' us. Couldnae tell if Randall was with them, but appears to be five."

Alistair dropped his piece of work. " _ Ahead _ o' us?" he then cursed. "We needed ta get to the crossroads before them-"

Murtagh and Jamie rounded on him at this. "The crossroads?" Murtagh inquired narrowly.

"Aye, the crossroads," Alistair answered thinly. 

"What's at the crossroads?" Jamie challenged.

"We dinnae have time to argue aboot it. We need ta flank them and get ahead," Alistair was working at his horse's saddle. 

"Morgan, get on the horse with Laoghaire," Jamie instructed as the blonde took her horse, dancing around uncertainly.

"Why?" Morgan asked tersely.

"I cannae fight with ye on the saddle. If somethin' happens ye and Laoghaire need ta ride the rest o' the way to the castle."

"We don't know the way!" Morgan retorted hotly, afraid to leave him behind. 

"Take a left at the crossroads, the path is straight from there to get ta Castle Campbell," Alistair revealed.

Having no choice, Morgan sat in front of Laoghaire, who took the reins of her horse and gingerly guided it forward. Her stomach burned, almost paining her, as she thought about leaving the men to fight a battle in which they were at a disadvantage. Remembering what Jamie had told her once, that he could take on two Redcloaks with one arm, did nothing to settle her nerves now. 

"I'm scared," Laoghaire muttered, hands quaking on the reins of the horse. 

"We'll be fine," Morgan assured her, though was doubtful herself. Voicing that to the person steering the horse wouldn't be wise. "Now remember what they told us. They shouldn't have a reason to stop us."

"Not unless Captain Randall is with them and recognizes you," Laoghaire pointed out. 

"We won't give them the chance," Morgan encouraged. 

Cantering back on the road, they trailed behind where the Redcoats had last been. The men were in the sparse woods, which had been thinning the further they moved down the road, turning more into hills and moors than forest. Each hoof fall made both of the females err nervously, Morgan drawing her hood down as far as she could, leaving her hair down so that it might fall around her face. 

Then they heard it, the first gunshot.

Laoghaire jerked her horse to a halt, the mare wickering, pawing the ground as they considered what to do. The plan had been clear, they needed to get up to the crossroads and turn left. Safety rested as Castle Campbell. The din of battle continued, Morgan only hearing Laoghaire's heavy breathing in her ear. 

"Go, go now," Morgan decided. They couldn't linger on the road. If the Redcoats were distracted, they could make their bolt then and there. 

Spurring the horse forward, the mare kicked off into a gallop, propelling them down the road. Morgan wasn't fond of the feeling, teeth rattling, and in between her legs groaning in protest as she listed forward on the saddle. In spite of it, Laoghaire was a good rider, pushing Morgan down, so that they could cut down the wind resistance. 

With her face by the horn of the saddle, Morgan could barely see what was going on, the horse's head obscuring most of her view. Horses were rushing around, some mounted, others without riders. Between yelling in English and Gaelic, it was difficult to discern any conversation or orders that were being given.

"Hang on!" Laoghaire shouted, leaning in the saddle, forcing Morgan with her. Morgan's own feet didn't fit in the stirrups and she gasped, feeling as if she were going to slide completely off by the way Laoghaire was leaning. The horse cried, turning sharply to the left as both riders were leaned to the side. 

"You there! Halt!" a soldier was yelling at them, but Laoghaire ignored him, continuing through the crossroads where the fighting was ensuing. 

Morgan tried to glance back, tried to see if she could find Jamie's auburn hair amongst the fighting, but when she did look she was astonished to see more than 5 Redcoats and more than 5 Scots.  _ He's fought in a war before, you shouldn't be so afraid. _

They were being pursued, but Morgan didn't know why. Only having rode through the crossroads, they should have been left alone. There were more pressing matters than following after two female riders. 

"In the name of His Majesty, you are required to halt!"

"How many?" Laoghaire asked breathlessly.

"Just one," Morgan revealed, but even if they were to try and fight him, she didn't know how a girl and a small woman would fare. Rather not take the chances and ride hard for Castle Campbell, even if that meant running the horse into the ground. Glancing back again, she saw the glint of a muzzle, the rider pointing his side arm at them. "Get down!" she wrenched in the saddle, twisting to force Laoghaire down at the slug whizzed over head. 

Laoghaire screamed, losing her grip on the saddle. She had been pressing her legs hard to the sides, balancing Morgan's weight in front of her until the doctor had turned to defend her. 

They fell.

Rolling in the dirt, Morgan had the wind knocked right out of her. Their horse spirited away, leaving them choking on the dust as the Redcoat came up on them. Scrambling to her feet, she ran over to Laoghaire who was wheezing on the ground just a few paces away, winded from her fall. 

"Get up!" Morgan insisted, grabbing the teen beneath her arm, hoisting her to her feet. 

"Not any further!" 

Both females froze, turning slightly to get a look at their assailant. It wasn't Captain Randall. Shakily, the rider pulled their horse to a halt, poising the gun at them, suddenly realizing that he had been following women and not other attackers. Morgan thrust Laoghaire behind her, the girl still not having caught her breath. 

"Cedric Walters," she remembered, gazing at the comely Redcoat who was beginning to lower his weapon. He had been the first person she had encountered after coming through the stones. 

"Miss-" his brows pulled together, confused as he looked between them. "You're not-"

"Not men?" Laoghaire snarled, coughing again. 

Walters began turning his horse, realizing that he had made a mistake. But when he turned, there were three other riders behind him. People that she did not recognize. Nor did they appear to be Redcoats. 

"That's far enough Lieutenant," the first voice was English, sending a shiver down Morgan's spine, making her dread what was to come.

Laoghaire gripped her. 

"Am I not mistaken when I say that your posting is further north than this?" the same person inquired. 

Amongst the riders, this one was a man in a fine gilded black surcoat trimmed with gold. His gleaming brown hair was tied back at the nape of his neck and he had a full, well groomed beard. Sharp brown eyes pinned Lieutenant Walters. 

"You are not mistaken, sir," the man replied, albeit too quickly.

"Then explain to me why you were gunning down two Scottish women more than 30 miles south of said posting?" the man continued. "Have they harmed you? Have they maimed you in any way? As far as I can see, aside from a few hairs out of place, you appear to be unscathed."

"No, sir. Our party was descended upon by a group of highlanders and I thought these two were included in that group."

"Descended upon by highlanders," the man sneered. "Or perhaps a trap was sprung on the highlanders to force them into an encounter. Tell me, as you still haven't, why are you this far south? Who gave you that order?"

"Captain Jonathan Randall, sir, of the Majesty's Own Eighth Dragoons."

"Ah, I thought as much," the man griped. "Ladies, are you alright?"

"Bruised, but unharmed aside from that," Morgan answered.

"And an English woman at that! I doubt His Majesty would have been very pleased at all to learn you had shot a citizen for no reason than running from a battle on the road," the noble man gasped, tossing another glare in Walter's direction. "Now, I am  _ rather  _ fond of repeating myself. Why was your party this far south?"

"I don't know."

"A Captain would not confide in his Lieutenant as why they're mobilising south past their typical reaches? As far as I know, Captain Randall has been assigned to keep the peace in the highlands-" Laoghaire snorted, "so I'm uncertain as to why he'd travel down here."

Cedric Walters had no answer for him.

"No matter, this topic shall be brought forth to His Majesty. Please come along Lieutenant, your platoon has some questions they need to answer... Those who remain, anyways... Leave behind your horse, I very well believe that these fair ladies would like to get to their destination safely."

The lieutenant grudgingly passed over the reins to Morgan before trotting toward the group of three men. He moved forward like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs. Whoever the English noble was that had stopped him, they were incredibly important. 

"Ladies, where are you headed? I shall send an escort with you," the man offered.

"Castle Campbell," Morgan answered, confidence returning to her rattled legs.

"Not too far of a ride from here," he acknowledged. "Sir Williams, would you mind seeing them through?"

The man he spoke to was a bit rotund, the white of his shirt straining slightly against his gut, but he wore a blue coat - a symbol that Morgan recognized. This man was a Jacobite sympathiser. She tried to piece together what was happening, recalling Alistair's insistence that they had to get to the crossroads first.

_ He planned this _ , she realized. There was no other reason for a posse of English noblemen to be galavanting across Scottish countryside. Alistair had set a trap and Randall had fallen for it. Having seized the opportunity to taunt Randall back in Cranesmuir, he had taken full advantage of finding a course of action to lure the Captain into a situation he wouldn't be able to explain himself out of. It was likely that Randall had ordered for no survivors - while Campbell men lay in wait alongside the English nobles.

Taking up riding alongside Sir Williams, Laoghaire was in the saddle behind her. This wasn't her territory. She was near an English noble, this was Morgan's court.

"A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, ladies," Sir Williams greeted jovially. "Although, I wish I could have under better circumstances."

"Thank you, sir," Morgan returned evenly. "My name is Mrs. Morgan MacTavish and my companion is Miss. Laoghaire MacKenzie."

"Ah, so you are Scottish, if only by your husband," Williams realized, but was nonplussed. "What ever were you doing on the road?"

"We were traveling to Castle Campbell per request of Alistair Campbell," there was no use in lying, especially if these were allies to Alistair.

"Oh, I see now. You must have been in his presence before this nonsense broke out," he deduced. "I heard he was traveling with a Dr. MacTavish, would that happen to be your husband?"

"I'm afraid that would be me, sir. However, not by name of course. I've studied with doctors, but as you understand, I cannot take the title officially. Many of the highlanders have given me the title as a courtesy," Morgan explained.

"To earn such a title amongst highlanders, especially as such a petite, kind English woman, you must truly be skilled," Williams remarked, staring at her with a new found awe. "You must be here to assess the laird's health."

"Correct, sir."

"I pray you might have a better hand as discovering what ails him. He is a dear friend to many of us and a good link between the English and the highland Scottish. Without such a mediator, I'm afraid the highlands would be in more disarray than they already are... Perhaps because he's fallen ill, someone as dastardly as the Captain could have managed to commit such atrocious acts."

"You ken what he's done?" Laoghaire broke in, astonished.

"I've been keeping close attention to the reports, miss. Just two decades ago the state between our alliance was considerably better."

"Pardon me for pointing this out, but isn't that when the Stuarts were on the throne?" Morgan inquired. 

"Yes, Mrs. MacTavish. I daresay you likely weren't alive to remember... or much of it. Forgive me, I should never guess a lady's age."

Morgan smiled at this, thankful for the common courtesy that hadn't been given to her in Leoch. "No, I do not recall much of it, truthfully, sir." She felt as if she had confirmed that he was most certainly on the side of the Jacobite cause.

"What will happen to Captain Randall and his men?" Laoghaire wondered out loud.

Williams glanced over at her, a kindly smile unfolding on his face. "The captain will face trial for crimes committed against the citizens of Scotland. From what I understand, there are a good deal of people who can attest to this, though there are likely twice that number who were wrongfully convicted and do not have voices to speak any longer. For this, he will likely face execution if the trial deems him guilty.

"His men, depending on their station, will likely receive less severe verdicts. However, I expect they will be expunged from the military with dishonorable discharges and brandings. Perhaps they shall be given the chance to go to the Colonies to start fresh, but the Crown shall not have them, even if they were simply following orders. Those that played more pivotal roles in turning a blind eye to the captain's tyranny will likely also face hanging."

"Sir, you sound as if you've been hearing of these things for a while now," Morgan entreated curiously.

"One thing to hear and another to witness. I have no reason to travel that far north in an attempt to see the hearsay, whilst putting myself in the line of fire from those who are the captain's allies. But the situation changes when it's dropped right at my feet, neatly wrapped," a chime like laugh escaped his parted lips. 

"The captain has allies?" Laoghaire asked.

"He is a dog on a leash who serves a master," Williams nodded, but did not reveal who that was. "But we fear that this master has others who are just as keen to rile up the Highlands."

She recalled the name, the Duke of Sandringham, but if Williams believed there were more, she didn't even know where to begin. 

Castle Campbell loomed into view between the stack of trees, an enormous hill cresting high behind it. From the look of it, the castle itself was built on a hill overlooking a town down below. The landscape descending in front of the castle had been manicured and cleaned, verdant stretches of fresh grass neatly groomed before the balcony and garden entrance. 

The road winded around the back of the castle's main house, bringing them beneath an archway and upon a small courtyard. Activity bustled around them, servants milling the area restlessly, turning their heads up at the approach of the riders. Morgan chanced a glance behind her, wondering if any of the men would be returning soon. She hoped that none of them were injured.

Morgan and Laoghaire were fussed down from the mount, whisked into the castle to warm their bodies. While this wasn't quite an English manor, it was still more decadent than Leoch. The stone walls bespoke of its age, but there were carpets and tapestries, paintings and ornaments. Meaningless items decorated the halls they traversed, up a flight of stairs, and into a waiting room where they eased in front of a fire, anxious for news of the party. 

Unable to sit beside Laoghaire, Morgan paced the length of the room. She should have been putting her faith in God, trusting that her Lord would deliver Jamie safely to her, but this world was too unpredictable. Good men were killed for no apparent reason at all, who was to say that wouldn't happen to her? 

Night was upon them much sooner than Morgan liked. In fact, no servant had come to entreat them and Sir Williams was now missing entirely too. Not until Laoghaire was dozing off in her chair did they find themselves being escorted to respective chambers, not a peep escaping the lips of the servants.

Morgan sat on a chair nearest the hearth, staring into the dancing flames, unable to see anything but Jamie falling in battle. Her fingers slid around her rosaries, keeping them fast in her hand, as she bundled herself up in furs to try and keep the cold chill of doubt out of her heart. Even if she was willing herself not to sleep until she was given an answer, her eyes began to shut, fire still red behind her eyelids as the day's exhaustion crept up on her. 

"Eun baeg." 

Morgan stirred, perhaps it was just her dreaming, but she thought she had heard Jamie. Lifting her head, she found that it had been placed against a pillow, strong hands still beneath her as they set her on the bed. Only embers stirred in the fireplace, night still keeping the castle in its loving embrace. Through drowsy lids, Morgan thought she saw her husband, but could not be too certain.

"Jamie?" she breathed.

"Aye, I'm here," he promised her.

She snapped awake, unfurling the blankets around her, clumsily stumbling up before she launched herself at him. He caught her, rumbling with a laugh as she clung to him, making certain that he was truly with her and not a passing spirit come to say goodbye. Her shoulders quaked, the fear all too real as she realized with each passing hour that Jamie's existence might’ve already ceased. 

"You're not hurt are you? Injured?" Morgan fussed, standing on the bed so that she could get a proper look at him. It was likely going to be the only time she was taller than him. Pushing aside his curls, she inspected him for wounds. 

"I got out jus' fine, just a few scratches, but nothin' that needs tending," Jamie insisted, his face coming into focus as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the room. His face was dirty, blood speckling his right cheek. There was a scratch above his brow that had since dried over. 

"You're certain? Last time you pretended to be fine you had a bullet through your shoulder," Morgan reminded him, just glad to have him back in her arms.

"I promise ye," he swore. "Yer safe, that's all that matters."

"It is not!" Morgan huffed, tears pricking in the corners of her eyes. "What took you so long? I was worried sick!"

"I had ta cut off from the rest of the group. Even if those Sassenachs were on our side, I'm still a wanted man and Randall woulda betrayed me. He's bein' taken somewhere else now. Duke van Straubenzee is headin' the operation himself."

Morgan nodded, pressing her forehead to his, drinking in his familiar scent that was tainted by a strong stink of sweat and blood. Yet, it didn't matter. Morgan pressed her lips to his, glad to feel the familiar shape of his wide mouth and the stubble surrounding it. Still, she was terribly tired from the day's events and stress. She had told Jamie she was a time traveler and then had been worried she'd never see him again shortly after.

"Come to bed. We can talk more in the morning - just as long as you're safe and with me now."

* * *

Castle Campbell is a real castle, though it has fallen to disrepair. Here is an image of it as reconstructed - [Click](https://www.maybole.org/history/castles/Castle%20%20Campbell%201500.jpg)

And an image of how it is standing today - [Click](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/718a5elusXL.jpg)


End file.
